It was significant that Abdulla’s novel began not with the miraculous discovery of the bunch of grapes, but with the game of bozkashi over the carcass of a goat.

Абдулланинг ўз қиссасини кеч кузда ғайбдан пайдо бўлган бир бошча узумдан эмас, улоқдан бошлаганича ҳам бор экан.

Hands cuffed, elbows gripped, Abdulla was taken down a dark staircase into the building’s basement. In one of the niches, by the dim light of the caged paraffin lamp, a swarthy Russian stuck his hands under Abdulla’s gown and poked in all his pockets, pulling out everything to the last penny, and then, after feeling his trousers, removed his thick leather belt. ‘Sign this!’ he barked, holding out a piece of paper. Abdulla gestured to his handcuffed wrists. ‘Well, scribbler,’ the guard laughed, ‘you’ve had your itchy little
hands put out of action!’ He kicked Abdulla in the knee so hard that the latter curled up in agony. ‘Hold the pen with your teeth,’ the Russian demanded.

Қўлида кишани билан Абдуллани қоронғу бинонинг қоронғу зиналари бўйлаб қоронғу ертўласига судрашди. Ертўланинг бир хонасида темир катакка илинган жинчироқ остида пешанаси кетга кетган бир барзангидек ўрис Абдулланинг чопони остига қўлини тиқиб, чўнтакларини кавлаб, сариқ чақагача бор пулини йиғиб олди-да, сўнг иштонига ёпишиб, ултон қамарини ечди. “Мана бунга имзо чек!” – деб бир парча қоғозни узатар экан, Абдулла қўлидаги кишанга имо қилган эди: “Ҳа, ёзувчишка, қичиган қўлларинг қисқарибди-да!” - деб тиззасига оғир ўтиги билан тепган эди, қимтилаб Абдулла чидаб бўлмас оғриқдан икки эгилди. “Тишла энди ручкани!” - деб ўшқирди бу бандибон жаллод.

‘Hold on, Vinokurov,’ said one of the men who had searched Abdulla’s house. ‘Watch you don’t finish him straight away, we’ve only just brought him in! I’ve still got to interrogate the son of a bitch.’ This man, evidently in charge, wished Vinokurov a Happy New Year before he left, presumably to celebrate with his own family.

“Қўй, Винокуров, - деб аралашгандек бўлди уйда тинтув қилганлардан бири, - келиши биланоқ ўлдириб юборма! Ҳали бу ифлосни сўроқ қилишим керак! Пока же в одиночку!” - деб буйруқ берди-да, анави онағар Винокуровни Янги йили билан табриклаб, ўзи уйга, оиласи билан байрамни кутгани кетишини айтдию маҳбусни Винокуров қарамоғида қолдирди.

Abdulla recalled a day from his own childhood, when he had dressed up in new trousers and an Uzbek gown to go to the Christmas tree celebrations. The caretaker at his Russian-language school stopped him at the school gates. ‘Have you become a kaffir now?’ the man grumbled, raising his stick to deal Abdulla a terrific blow on the thigh. The literature teacher, seeing this, hurried over and rebuked him: ‘This is a celebration of the birth of Jesus son of Mary, and Jesus is a prophet of yours!’ Abdulla’s leg was bleeding and his new trousers were stained; he ended up visiting the hospital instead of the Christmas tree. The teacher drove him all the way home, in his own carriage: a Russian, who had defended him from an Uzbek. No, generosity or meanness had nothing to do with nationality.

Бир куни ўзининг болалигида ерли рус мактабида ўқиятган чоғи ҳавас қилиб башанг янги шим, янги чопонда арча байрамига келаётганида мактаб қоровули Холмирза-тажанг эшик тагида тутиб олиб: “Сан ҳам копир бўлдингми?” - деб балдоқи билан бола болдирига аямай тушириб қолганида, буни кўрган адабиёт ўқитувчиси Георгий Евстигнеевич, чолнинг олдига келиб, тоза сарт тилида: “Ахир Исо ибн Мариямнинг милоди бу. Исо сенинг ҳам пайғамбаринг-ку!” - деб айтганини эслади Абдулла. Ўшанда янги шимию оёғи қонга буланиб, арча байрамининг ўрнига Георгий Евстигнеевичнинг извошчигида аввал касалхона, сўнг уйига қайтган эди у. Йўқ, саҳоватинг ҳам, разолатинг ҳам миллати бўлмас экан.

Chief Minister Hakim kept the gates shut, as he had promised Nasrullo. Nasrullo moved with his elite troops towards Bukhara, but Husayn fired on the rebel army with artillery and rifles. They got as far as the fortress walls, and Husayn fought them at the mint next to the fortress, where they had taken cover.

Ҳаким-қушбеги, Арк дарвозасини берк тутиш ваъдасини Насруллоҳ-тўрага бермаганми, ул зот аскари билан Бухоро томон силжиганини билгач, Ҳусайн-тўра унинг исёнкор тарафдорларини ўқу-милтиққа тутди. Лекин булар Арк деворлари тагига етишган, Ҳусайн-тўра эса ўз маҳрамлари ила ўзларини Арк ёнидаги пул зарбхонасининг панасига олишганди.

His father was right when he said that a man can be in thrall to devils, especially if he is a writer. You have only to set to work to be gripped by your plans and inventions, and everything else seems vanity, triviality, a distraction. Over the last month Abdulla had covered reams of paper, having told himself: If I can sit down on my own this winter, I will finish writing the novel. And now all those hopes had been dashed. The Tatar NKVD man had found the manuscript, stuffed it in the only suitcase in the house, and taken it
away with him. And he was hardly going to read it, was he? Could he even decipher the old Arabic script of Uzbek? Or would he hire some black-eyed locals to read it for him?

Чиндан ҳам отаси айтмиш, жин босар экан, ёзувчи одамни. Ишга киришдингми – зикру хаёлинг ана ўша тўқимада, қолгани - фақат алахсиш, фақат чалғишдек туюлар экан. Ўтган ой ичида анча-мунча қоғозларни қоралаб қўйди Абдулла, айтмовдими: “Шу қиш узлат қилиб ўтирсам, қиссани ёзиб битказаман” - деб. Афсус, ишнинг белига от тепди. Анави анди татар топган қўлёзмасини уйдаги биттаю битта жомадонга босиб, ўзи билан олиб келди. Ўқирмикан барини? Эскичага кўзи ўтармикан? Ё яна ўзининг қора кўзларидан ёллаб, уларга ўқитармикан?

Why hadn’t Abdulla begun his story with a description of the bunch of grapes? He might have got away with saying that this was just a little sketch of a fictitious gardener. But now his pieces would certainly damn him. Thoughts have strange paths, indeed.

Нега ахир узум ғужумидан бошлагани йўқ, боғбонлар ҳаётидан бир асарча деб қўя қолармиди. Ҳали бунисини ҳам унинг бўйнига қўйишса керак. Хаёл йўллари ажиб.