WRITER'S DEATH
The writer, who had already suffered one heart attack, was very well looked after. In spite of this, he was struck down by insidious cancer in the midst of summer. In his last moments, only a nurse stood by his side. The one who was an admirer of his work, the one who read his stories with rapture. Hence, she tried to stay close to her special patient longer than the others.
-Your wife is here. Shall I invite her in? -
she asked.
The writer refused and turned his gaze to the
door: waiting for someone. However, the children did not have time to say
goodbye to him - when they came to the hospital to his father, he had already
left this mortal world. Their painful grief was clear: he always remained not only
a talented prose writer, but also a good father ...
... And now the writer was sent off to his
last journey. The coffin with the deceased, like a ship, sailed on the
shoulders of people who came to say goodbye to the famous writer. From the
photo, carved on the marble tombstone, a man was smiling sweetly. It was as if
he was saying goodbye to all the pain that had accompanied him in recent years.
There were tears in the eyes of all present,
everyone tried to put flowers at the feet of the deceased. The writer's last
resting place became a sort of pilgrimage site for his admirers. Reciting his
wonderful works, they sighed bitterly. After all, in every line was so much
life philosophy, human pain, beautiful deep feelings. But even such a brilliant
man was powerless against the disease.
One day, a stack of letters appeared on the
writer's grave.
-The letters that I wrote to you, but dared
not to send... - with a deep sigh, said the stranger.
A month passed and readers began reading other
books, a year later and for his family life went on. Only for one person
nothing had changed: she never stopped visiting the writer's grave every day,
praying for the repose of his soul. Again and again she used to read his books,
as if she were living in his works. The spirit of the writer began to visit her
in dreams.
...The writer's sixtieth birthday was held in
the ceremonial hall of the Creative House. He had often been there: first as an
amateur novelist, then as a devoted book lover, later he became a talented
writer. A little more time passed, and he was already speaking from the podium,
giving his word on literature. It was here that the presentation of his first
book took place, and he received a standing ovation. However, with time fame,
applause, and fame began to weigh on him, and he preferred to seclude himself
away from the hustle and bustle of creativity. Works written in solitude
penetrated to the very depths.
He
received so many letters inspiring him with unfolding story lines. But among
them was one particular letter...
...And
today the writer's wife brought several letters to this gala event, which she
almost clutched to her heart. With trepidation she awaited her performance in
front of a huge audience of famous writers, poets, and students who considered
him their mentor, teacher, and simply admirers of her late husband's work. The
writer's children sat on the front row, proud of their father. How nice to hear
so many good words and reviews! How comforting to know that the blessed memory
is alive!
- My
late husband devoted his whole life to literature," she began her usual speech
she gave in every interview for numerous publications. - He was not only a
brilliant writer, but also a wonderful father and husband. His novels, written
night after night, were read by his beloved people. I was constantly by his
side: I was his critic, his first reader. And now nothing has changed in his
office, even on his desk manuscripts, papers, books continue to lie. Time seems
to have stopped: everything is as it was when the writer was alive. Sometimes
it seems to me the door is about to open and he enters to finish his next
literary masterpiece...
At
the end of her speech, the writer's widow read out lines from letters from
grateful readers. To the storm of applause and tears in her eyes, she returned
to her place of honour.
- Ah,
if all this attention and reverence had been given during the writer's
lifetime. We would have lived in peace and harmony. There would be no regrets
and remorse today..." she thought, and sighed bitterly.
Suddenly
her gaze fell on a woman sitting at the door. Catching the stern and intense
gaze of her rival, she covered her face with a handkerchief. The writer's widow
blushed, her heart ached. She was hurt and offended. More precisely, ashamed.
She nervously clutched the letters in her hands. Glanced in her direction one
more time: no one was there anymore.
Calming
down a little, she thought back to the events of the memorable evening. The
unexpected meeting with the woman made her remember that moment in her life...
***
-You
write and write all the time! What's the use of your writing! - said the woman,
pointing her fingers at the manuscript the writer had been writing all night. -
Do not you want to live in a beautiful house, drive your own car, to travel
around the world? You just want to write and write. You don't need anything but
books!
She
came close to the bookshelves and burst into tears:
-
What can these precious books of yours do? You're not even a member of the
Writers'
- He
is not my student! - He replied indifferently.
- And
who came to our house? Didn't you write him a review? Didn't he beat you to
publish his first book? And now he's a member of the Writers'
- I
wish him luck! - The man replied serenely, as well.
-
What kind of person are you? Maybe you should apply for it too, eh? Why don't
you want the dacha[1] in Durmen valley,
the apartment you are entitled to? Why don't you take advantage of the benefits
and privileges accorded to writers? There, some even make a fortune through
their talent! How many books have you written so far? Seven! - She shouted
without waiting for her husband's answer. - And how many books have you
published? Only two! And did you get royalties for them? No! You see, he
doesn't write for the money. Then what's all this for? What's the point of all
your writing? At least the editorial office would be paid properly. No!
It
was as if the writer was not listening to his wife. He scratched the back of
his head, crossed something out, then wrote again.
-Yes,
wait a minute! I have an ending to finish here... - said the husband calmly.
-No,
answer my questions first! - The wife was resolute.
And
then the writer lifted his head from the papers:
- I
can't use my gift for profit. Though who am I telling?! You will never
understand it. If I wrote for material gain... No, no! It's hard to imagine...
If you want a luxurious house and a car, I'll go to
The
writer was not in the least bit angry, which made the enraged woman calm down.
She remembered the heart attack after another quarrel, which frightened her
greatly. And really, what am I doing with him? After all, the children are
still very young, and we are young. We'll have a house and a car...
The
writer didn't sleep a wink that night. Couldn't even write a line. He waited
for the e-mail. It was now that he so needed those sincere messages that
inspired him, gave him strength.
The
writer never responded to these rare letters. But that did not stop the devoted
reader from writing again and again. And so the notification of a new letter
made the writer very happy. After all, he was in such need of a kind word and
support.
"My
dear writer!
Recently
in one of the literary magazines I read your story - "The Living
Man". It touched me to the bottom of my heart. In the contents of your two
books, which I have, there is no such a story. But I would say it is a wonderful
story, equal in plot to a whole novel. You know, I saw myself in the main
character. I sometimes too, watching around, cannot find living people. Are
there any living people at all? It seems as if everyone's heart is fading. I
don't doubt that you are a living person. You don't know me, but I consider you
my closest person. Please keep writing such lively stories. I wish you luck and
inspiration!
Sincerely,
A."
The
writer recalled "The Living Man," which, after several returns, was
finally printed. He remembered how he had written it for a whole week without
leaving the house. How he had received a severe reprimand for it. How his wife,
resentful of him, left with the children to her parents. It wasn't their fault.
The newspaper needs articles and the family needs attention. After all, they
are also living people ...
This
time he decided to answer the letter.
"Dear
A.
I
read your letters all the time. These sincere reviews, wishes inspire me.
Sometimes I want so much to abandon everything, but when I receive another
letter from you, where you write that you are waiting for a new story from me,
then I again take up the pen ... ".
He
kept writing and writing. And in the end he ended up with a very long and
emotional letter, driven by grief, sadness, and anxiety. The writer felt how
each word made him feel lighter and brighter at heart. When he sent the letter,
it was already brightening in the courtyard. The man closed his eyes and tried
to relax. When he got back to work, there was a new e-mail.
And
so began their correspondence.
One
day, while cleaning up her husband's desk, his wife saw a notification on the
monitor that a new letter had arrived. When she opened the mail, she saw many
letters sent from almost the same person.
"My
dear writer!
In
the last letter you sent a brief plot of your new novel. And you know, I don't
agree about the image of the main character. You describe a woman who lost her
husband and found solace in books as a beautiful woman. She can't be! A woman
who has lost her strong and beloved shoulder will never be beautiful. She is
like a wilted flower without a caring gardener. The meaning of her life is
books. And so it would be wiser to make a man fall in love not with her outer
beauty but with her inner beauty. And then, love at first sight, not very
convincing. Reconsider that point. If you want, I'll help you create a
psychological portrait of the main character.
By
the way, I work in that library you frequently visit. I've seen you there many
times, but I didn't dare to approach you. But next time I will come to meet
you. And I will help you with my sketches. It is very nice that you do not
leave my opinion without attention.
Sincerely,
A."
The
woman deleted the new letter and quietly walked to the kitchen. She watched her
husband, who was drinking his coffee thoughtfully. He did not have that
decadent mood that had not left him lately. And in his eyes the woman noticed a
sparkle. Everything is clear...
-I'm
going to see my sister," she said spontaneously.
-Is
everything all right? Is something wrong? - He asked calmly.
-Yes,
she's a little sick. I'll see her and come back.
The
woman went outside. She walked in the direction of the library, which was
nearby. It was Sunday. And so she found the janitor and asked about the woman whose
name began with the letter A.
It
turned out that there was only one woman working in the library whose name
began with A. Her rival's name was Amina. The eager librarian answered all her
questions about Amina - about the death of her husband, that she had worked in
the library for a long time, that she had no children, that she read a lot of
books, even about what she ate for lunch...
It's
the morning of a new week. Amina, serving readers, saw a strange woman in front
of her. Her hateful look made her flinch.
-If
you don't quit your job today and stop writing to my husband, I will shame you
into the world!
Amina
looked around in horror: the hall is full of people. The director was there,
explaining something to someone. A little farther along, the female employees
were stacking new books in a friendly fashion. Fear of embarrassment in front
of people rendered the woman speechless. She whispered faintly:
-Okay...
-So
that tomorrow even your sighting will not be here! And stop hanging on my
husband! - The woman hissed like a snake and with a haughty look left the
lecture-room.
The
next day, Amina resigned from the library. The writer was again overcome by
sadness and melancholy. His wife was glad that her husband now belonged only to
her. But she was very wrong...
It's
been a while. A new novel by the writer was published. On the front page was
written: "Dedicated to my dear friend A." My wife, after reading the
unexpected confession, was upset. Her husband did not react in any way, but
only sighed deeply at his wife's questioning gaze.
I
wonder if Amina has read this book.
***
While
life was scrolling through the memory like a tape, it was time for the
anniversary party to end. The famous writer's wife and children were given a
grand tribute. Soon his portrait on the wall in the ceremonial hall would be
replaced by a portrait of another writer. Only one person watched the raucous
applause, listened to the high-pitched words, the gift of books through the
window. As she left the building, she turned back once more.
She
was, as always, mentally talking to her favourite writer...
"My
dear writer, it seems to me that there is no living person around..."
Clutching
the dishevelled book to her chest, she hurried to the subway station.
Nodirabegim
Ibrokhimova was born in
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