– 'What does my clothes have to do with it?' Bulov asked in surprise.

– 'They started shooting, then the police, I didn't know who came, thought they'd find your clothes and I'd be done for, stage by stage, goodbye to my native land. I threw everything into the stove, banged so hard on the door that I heard your voice when I went to open it, and it was too late anyway, I doused your clothes with kerosene, burned them so they'd burn faster.'

– 'My manuscript was in the jacket.'

– "Been and gone," Kato grumbled. "You don't know what 'big shmuck' means. They'll find any little thing, it's curtains for me, blow it up into a political case."

Bulov sighed. There was no use complaining, especially not to a cop nicknamed "the pimp."

"Well, I'll say I gave Kasym the manuscript. Kasym never reads Ayesha's crappy works anyway."

In the morning, Kato brought him old trousers and a shirt borrowed from a neighbor, and Bulov trudged home, checking the route against Kato's map every second to avoid getting lost again.

"I didn't burn the manuscript. Pulled it out of my jacket pocket out of boredom, recognized his signature right away. I've typed enough of his manuscripts over those two years, I know the typewriter font by heart. Started reading this one and couldn't put it down: this story was once written by my father, the reason he disappeared into the wilds of Bibir Island. And the one who snitched on my father, after he read the manuscript, now claims his story as his own, pseudonym Pendyr might fool anyone else, not me. Scoundrel! How he pretended to care about me when father vanished without a trace, leaving me with nothing, everything confiscated, he was father's friend, indeed, all for the sake of dragging me into his bed. I was fifteen then… Two years later, I found the draft of the denunciation, unsigned, incomplete, but in his typewriter font… I nearly died, I loved him. Kept silent. And he found a lucrative wife and threw me out onto the street, saying, 'you're grown, work!' But where to work, when everyone avoided me like the plague, no one would hire me… Until I found 'the panel.' It unites them all: professionals and amateurs. Those amateurs, I'd tear them all apart: they have families, children, everything I dreamed of as heaven… What drove them to the panel? Were they starving like me and my kind?… Were they pursued like rabid, sick, homeless dogs?… That's where you sent me to work!… Never mind, now you're in my hands. I'm sure those who sent my father away so far haven't read this story themselves. Iosif Besarionis's cockroach mustaches are sacred, and anyone who laughs at them is a blasphemer… But we must wait. Our inquisitors will catch on… Yesterday, one guard, they're just as talkative in bed as anyone else, said they're expecting a big boss's arrival, Iosif Besarionis's closest aide… He's coming to inspect… If he can't pass it on, we'll wait, there's no rush, live while you can."

Aman-Jalil got married. It was advantageous. And he couldn't refuse.

Ahmed called him to his office over the phone:

"Come in, my dear, I have a gift for you!"

Aman-Jalil hurried to his boss. Aman-Jalil's nervousness wasn't unfounded; Ahmed's gifts were hard for many to stomach, and some perished from indigestion. Anything could happen, so Aman-Jalil checked his channels, known only to him. There seemed to be no storm brewing, at least nobody knew anything.

In Ahmed's office, Aman-Jalil saw a young, beautiful girl. Aman-Jalil liked her, but she glanced briefly at him, frowned maliciously, and turned away. Ahmed stood up from his desk, approached him like a long-awaited guest.