Several times he sent matchmakers to G’ozi-xo’ja’s house, but the reply was always ‘no’. The pretext was that Oyxon was betrothed to a relative, that their marriage was imminent, after which G’ozi-xo’ja gave a detailed account of his poverty and complained that he was being unjustly punished and that Umar’s actions contradicted the laws of Islam; but, if his Lordship wished to force a marriage, then that was in his power and on his conscience. G’ozi-xo’ja added that his wife hadn’t stopped weeping since the
matchmakers started pestering their household. Then he sent the matchmakers away. And yet…

Бир эмас икки дафъа Ғози-хожанинг уйига совчи юборди, иккала сафар ҳам йўқ жавобини эшитди. Бирида: “Бу мастурамизни қариндошлардан бирига унаштириб қўйганмиз, яқин орада тўй қилишга умунганмиз” - деган эса, иккинчи кез Ғози-хожа ўз аламини очиқроқ ифода этибди. “Мен ғурбатда юрган бир айбаки ғариб бўлсам. Амирул-мўминийннинг бу саъи-корлари на адолат юзасидан, на дину-диёнат жиҳатидан ақлга тўғри келади. Агар зўрлик билан олмоқчи бўлсалар, яна ўзлари биладилар!” - деб хотинларнинг йиғи-сиғисини қўшиб, совчиларни қайтарган экан. Лекин...

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.

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?