By I love October. There is more wind and rain in October. The weather is often cloudy. Yellow leaves rustle under your feet, and a leaf fall brings peace and comfort to your heart.
Yesterday it was windy, but today it rained. By evening, though it was quiet, the bitterness that came from the ground, and its wet smell were still lingering in my breath. In the evening, the temperature dropped very low, so I cooled down on the balcony. Then I went inside.
In my cozy room, there was a long and large bookshelf. I went up to it and for a moment thought about what to do. I was not inclined to read. My head hurt and my heart was beating. It is unlikely that a book would help in such a situation.
When I fell down on a chair, I remembered again that Nafisa had not come for the book. She took Marquez’s “One hundred years of solitude” exactly ten days ago. Since then, she has not been seen.
As time passed, the headache increased. I took medicine and drank a freshly brewed bitter coffee in addition. After that, I started walking back and forth in the room.
…In the house across the street from me lived a Russian old woman. She died two months ago, and Nafisa and her family moved into her apartment. The old woman’s son, who lived abroad, sold the house to them. Nafisa’s father was military, worked in the military part of the city, and she herself, if I am not mistaken, taught English at school.
She must have heard from her neighbors that I have a private library. She herself never asked about it. When she met me in the street, she just nodded to greet me, without saying anything, it was probably inconvenient to ask for something.
“Can I read something from your books? “she asked me once, suddenly appearing in front of my apartment.
At first, I was very surprised. Nobody here asked me for books. Nevertheless, I invited her inside.
“You have so many books!”
She looked around my library and rejoiced like a little child. I stood silently in front of the window, pressing a cigarette to my lips. I did not want to answer her. I thought that then she would ask more questions. I was used to not answering anybody when I was smoking.
“Can I take Jack London’s book?” she asked.
I nodded as a sign of consent, inhaling cigarette smoke and turning my back on her. Nafisa took the book and thanked me from the bottom of her heart.
“Thank you very much! I will read it quickly!”
Her first book was “Martin Eden”. Then she began to come to me every three or four days. We almost did not communicate, she was a little confused, especially when she saw that I do not pay attention to her. When she noticed how indifferent I was smoking at the window, she would carefully return the book she had read to the shelf and hurriedly leave.
Eventually, it turned into our routine. But for the last time, everything was different. I don’t even know why. This time, I did not smoke at the window. On the contrary, I sat in a chair and did not take my eyes off her. She was in no hurry to leave, too, leaving a book. She stood in front of the shelf longer than usual, as if she could not choose. After a long pause, she took Marquez’s “One hundred years of solitude” and looked at it with interest, standing in the center of the room.
“It turns out that you like to read world literature?” I asked for the first time, looking at her closely.
When she caught my look, she blushed like a beet.
“Yes, I often read world literature,” she said, maintaining her composure and continued to flip through the pages of the book.
Perhaps, she was not attractive. Nevertheless, her polite behavior, smooth movements, calm confidence and at the same time the thirst for life, shining in her eyes, were extremely attractive.
“Have you read all these books?”
“Almost,” I said after looking at the closet.
“I envy you,” she continued, closing the book and going to leave.
“Would you like to have a cup of coffee?” I asked, suddenly standing up when she reached the doorstep. “Today is the right weather for coffee.”
Nafisa looked out the open window.
“Well, if it doesn’t give you any trouble…” she said confusedly.
“Do you want sugar or no sugar?”
“Let it be without sugar.”
For coffee, I forgot my inhumanity and shyness. I spoke with enthusiasm about the books I read and my favorite authors. She listened to me with interest and attention. When it was her turn, she spoke with pleasure and no less enthusiasm. Listening to her, I realized that I was fascinated by a man whose worldview was like mine, like two drops of water, and that I finally felt the sweet pleasure that had been lacking in my life for many years.
When she left, I was again alone with my books. As it always was. I was very much mistaken, expecting that my heart, accustomed to loneliness, would again begin to wander quietly in its deserted corners. For the first time, I felt deeply alone, feeling the fullness of this dark feeling in four walls.
When I left the house the next day, I accidentally met Nafisa in the street. Her sister was with her on her way to school. As always, I greeted her, but we walked silently to the bus stop. I wanted to talk, but then I thought about it. Maybe I was embarrassed again because of the people around me.
At the bus stop, I caught a cab and she got on the bus. On the way, I remembered the book she had taken the last time. Then I began to wonder if she would read it quickly. In the end, I decided firmly that she would succeed.
Four days passed without any news. On the fifth absence, Nafisa squeezed the peace of mind out of my soul. On the sixth, contrary to my nature, my heart fell, and I began to get very nervous. On the seventh day, as usual smoking at the window, I came to the conclusion that it is impossible to finish reading this book by Marquez for a week, and this conclusion led me to seizures.
Yesterday my state of mind deteriorated and I could not concentrate on my work in the insurance company. I had no idea how I could read a 386-page book for so long, and I constantly thought about it. Other obsessive thoughts were dreaming in my head. Probably, Nafisa had no time to read the book, I said to myself. After a minute I thought she just did not like the book and forgot to return it.
Most of my colleagues were not interested in reading it, except for Feruza Anvarovna from the Risk Management Department. She was about thirty-five years old – she was a sincere and very smart woman. During the break, I wanted to ask her about this book by Marquez, which occupied all my mind.
“Feruza Anvarovna,” I said while entering. “Can I ask you something?”
At that time she was sorting stacks of papers on her desk.
“Of course, Humayun.”
“How many days will you read a book with three hundred and eighty-six pages?”
Feruza Anvarovna thought a little.
“It depends on what kind of book it is. If I am interested in it, I will finish reading it in seven days. If not, I will not read it even in a month.”
A little bit later I addressed one of my clients with the same question.
“If I try, probably, to read it within two weeks,” he said after thinking.
On the way home, the cab driver also asked the same question.
“Honestly, I’m not interested in reading books,” he said, sneaking around through my rearview mirror.
When I got home, I stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall without going inside. This had an ulterior purpose: if Nafisa had seen me from her window, she would probably have come to change the book. I stood like this for twenty minutes. But there was no knocking on the door. When I was disappointed, I put my hand in my pants pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. The box was almost empty. Fortunately, there was the last cigarette left. It helped me to distract a little: I went to the bookshelf and took some books from there. One had two hundred and fifty-four pages, the other one had one hundred and eighty-three, and the third one had one hundred and twenty-four pages. I left this third one and put the rest back on the shelf. Having flipped through the book from beginning to end, I decided to recommend it to Nafisa next time…
…Wandering around the room soon tired my legs. I leaned on the back of the chair. The pain in my head began to fade after taking a pill. But my heart was still pounding like crazy. Having put my head on the edge of the chair, I closed my eyes for a moment. The image of Nafisa swam before my eyes again and again. Then I realized that the discomfort, nervousness, bad mood for the last ten days were all the result of waiting. I, accustomed since childhood not to expect anything, was looking forward to meeting her like nothing else. I was looking forward to seeing her again, how she would talk to me and her pleasant voice would fill the room. Why should I lie to myself? After all, it really did not matter how long the book by Marquez was read.
When I admitted this fact, I suddenly laughed. My laughter was full of pain, longing, and sadness. I kept laughing. My voice was getting louder and louder. At that moment, there was a knock on the door. At first, I did not pay attention. Then somebody knocked again. Before opening, I corrected my tie and buttoned my shirt. After that, I opened it. Nafisa was standing on the threshold holding a book in her hand.
“I hardly finished,” she said, trying to smile and showing me the book in her hand. “Marquez made me sweat a lot.”
By SHERZOD ARTIKOV
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