STATUES
There was silence in the
alley. After the cool autumn rain all the statues felt fresh and clean. No one
was around now, but soon the weather would clear up and there would be couples
walking around, holding hands. As the young people begin to declare their love,
the statues look at each other and smile. The girls look around and, after
making sure no one is around, discreetly snuggle up to the guys. "Why
aren't they shy with us, or did the sculptor make us not look like people?"
- one of the statues wonders. And when a young man kisses a girl, the statues,
feeling very uncomfortable, try to turn away, but can't.
Over time, the statues became
accustomed to such pictures. They have witnessed endless declarations of love
and kisses. At such moments they sighed heavily, remembering their love in
their youth. Among the lovers there were some newcomers, and some faces that
had become familiar over the years. But one in particular stood out. The tall,
curly-haired fellow, who always wore a leather jacket, was known to all the
statues.
They were also familiar with
the text of his declarations of love. It began with the words, "As the
moon and the sun are one in the sky, so you are one for me," and ended
with the words, "Even on the doomsday we will be together." In the
middle of his confession, he recited by heart the poetry of the poet whose
statue stood here in the alley. At first the statue rejoiced, but then began to
get angry. Because every time this guy read these poems to a different girl,
and in such a tone as if he were on a date with his beloved for the first time.
The young man was very loyal to this avenue. But not to the girls: the faces of
those walking with him changed very often.
And each girl looked at him
with the same trust, love and loyalty, and the statues sighed, knowing that she
too would soon be abandoned. In spite of this, they were getting used to this
guy. After all, he was a poet! Here he composed good poetry. Sometimes he would
sit lonely on a bench, write something, then read in a whisper. He even talked with
the statues several times.
- Teacher, after reading your
poems, I fell in love with literature. Over time, will there be a place for me
among you? Ser, may your spirit sustain me, - he said, looking at the old
statue with respect.
When he heard the sound of
approaching heels and a pleasant fragrance of women's perfume, he hid his
notebook in his pocket, forgot all about the statues and hurried to meet his
beloved.
- This girl seems pretty.
Maybe he'll marry her and finally settle down, -said one of the statues,
watching the guy moving away.
- I think the guy will live in
solitude, for he is so fickle. But, I must admit, he's not a bad writer.
- What, brother, does that
mean he's destined to live his life as a bachelor? - His neighbor laughed.
- Why? Why should he immerse
himself in family worries? Because that way he might give up literature. There,
your unfinished novel is gathering dust in the closet!
- So what, the main thing is
that they gave me a statue too!
- Yes, it's good that you
joined us, -the third statue intervened in the conversation
remembering that the two could not get along with each other in life and thus
softened the situation. - Creativity is one thing, but personality is another.
At that moment a group of
students entered through the front gate. The pupils and their teachers
approached the statues.
- So today the ground beneath
our feet will be filled with flowers.
- Is today someone's birthday?
- No, today is the day of my
death, -one statue sighed. - Look who's coming along with the disciples? Those
are my disciples! So they brought the students of the school I went to. Yes...
Good, even though they don't go to my grave, they came to visit my statue.
- You have a good memory. I confess,
I don't remember any of my students.
- Well, of course, it's
impossible to remember, because two hundred years have passed since your death!
Even your followers are long gone!
- In any case, it is good to
be young...
One by one, the disciples came
up and laid bouquets at the foot of the statue. At that time, a film crew
appeared and began filming the statue. Hearing the warm memories the students
told of the late creator, tears almost came to the statue's eyes. But can a
stone cry? Neither could this statue. The event ended with a reading of the
poet's poems.
- Did you hear that? They read
my unpublished poems in my lifetime, -the statue boasted, though it couldn't
move.
- Bravo, brother, you are a
talent!
- I wonder if there will be a
literary evening tomorrow, too.
- Aren't you bored? If you ask
me, nobody should come!
- There's nothing for us to do
anyway... It's better than listening to lovers.
- It would be better if they
paid attention not to us but to the guy who wrote poems here a few days ago.
You don't meet talent like that every day.
- You mean the guy who wrote
the sonnet sitting on this bench? He wrote it, whispered it, rewrote it, then
reread it, and finally tore up the paper and threw it in the river. Oh, too
bad, those were good poems. If he had given them to some newspaper, he would
have become famous.
- You saw how his father kept
calling and bothering him. So the poor guy lost his inspiration. "The
goods have arrived, when will you take them to the store?!" his father
demanded. Well, does he understand what poetry is?
- Inspiration doesn't really
exist. Creativity consists entirely of hard work.
- It may be so for a writer,
but poetry is not written without inspiration.
- The weather has turned bad
again. It looks like it's going to rain tonight. When the cold weather starts,
so will the activities. There will be no entertainment here until spring,
except for crows and the occasional lovers.
- If we don't get shelter,
will we make it to spring?
- Don't worry, we'll be
repainted in the spring.
- I'm afraid of falling apart.
After all, I am a very old statue.
- Be patient. In a pinch
they'll put another statue in your place, -he wanted to laugh, but couldn't. -
Don't be offended, it's just a joke.
The statue sighed and looked
at her fingers on her hands. Cracks appeared on them.
- Those fingers had always
been stained with ink...
- Nowadays, all writers write
on computers. I used to type on a typewriter! In the silence of the night, the
clatter of the typewriter sounded as pleasant as the sound of a piano. If I'm
not mistaken, I retyped my novel five or six times. Thank God, the last years
of my life I lived in luxury, constantly ordered new works, even provided me
with a secretary typist. But... I couldn't write. All my famous books were
written in a rented house during the years of poverty.
- I don't think that's the
point. Take Tolstoy and Dostoevsky as examples. They were contemporaries, one
lived in luxury and wealth, the other in poverty. But the works of both are
incomparable. Perhaps it is a matter of talent. God-given talent!
- Perhaps...
They were silent for a long
time. Both thought about their lives. Thinking about their written and
unwritten works.
...Winter had not yet arrived,
but it suddenly began to snow heavily. All the statues were covered with white
snow, and then icicles formed on their toes. The icicle hanging on the old
statue's hand was heavy: it suddenly broke off and fell to the ground with a
loud crack. But it tore off the statue's arm along with it.
All the statues, alert, looked
at the old statue.
- Are you not hurt?
After this hasty question,
there was a slight snickering chuckle. The statues turned serious.
- It's a pity about my left
hand... I wrote all my works with my left hand...
- Don't grieve, ser. As soon
as the snow melts, you will be restored.
- Of course, of course. Along
with the restoration, you'll be cleared of snow. You'll be even more imposing.
- My friend, don't be sad,
it's not very noticeable from the outside. If you hang a book on your shoulder,
no one will notice the lack of an arm...
The reassurance, the
consolations lasted a long time. But people didn't notice that the statue had
no arm. Young "selfies" posed, leaning on the statue. The janitors
cleaned up the wreckage of the broken arm, not even wondering what it was. And
when the sun rose high, the poetry tournament at the statue continued.
- I'm falling apart... - the
old statue looked sadly at the shoulder, which had begun to fall apart after
the arm fell off. - It's my birthday in the spring... until then they won't
notice my misfortune.
- Ser, be patient until
spring. Before your birthday they will see your problem and repair it. And the
ground beneath your feet will be filled with flowers again...
At that moment an old
acquaintance of theirs, a fickle young poet, appeared in the alley. The statues
began to watch him with interest. This time a young rosy-cheeked girl in a
shiny scarf came along with him.
- Had he married?
- He had been gone a whole
month. Married, then!
- Now he would come to his
senses and realize the responsibility of being the head of the family.
The young man led his bride
right up to the old statue. Then he turned around and said:
- This is my teacher. Although
he left the world long ago, I studied life, people, and the world by reading
his books. You could call him my spiritual father. You know, my father
abandoned us. In the house where my mother and I lived, there was only one
book, this poet's. A poem. The girl in that poem was my friend. In those dark
days, only that book and its heroine gave me hope. She shone like a light in
the darkness. I remember the day they erected the statue here... I fell at his
feet and wept bitterly. Me, my mother, and him lived my difficult childhood
together. I told my mother that one day I would be a great poet and I would
feed us with my poems. But when I grew up, I found out that it was impossible
to support a family with poetry alone ... No, I'm not complaining, I have a
profession and I can feed the family. I will not hide it, I met and went out
with many girls, while I was looking for the one, from his poem ... And finally
found you. You're the girl. The girl from the poem... I was very lonely...
Until I met you on the bus with his poem in your hands.
The young woman smiled. Stared
intently at the old statue. Then she frowned.
- Look... his arm has fallen
off, -she said sympathetically.
The young man, who had already
noticed this, began to look around, but there was no sign of a broken arm
anywhere.
- We should report the incident...
Look, there's a crack in the neck, too. When the heavy rains come, it will
collapse altogether.
They left in haste.
- Ser, how faithful he is to
you, -sighed the neighboring statue. - I have no such devoted admirers.
- It's good that you wrote that
poem!
- The poem... -the old statue
pondered. - He must mean "Loneliness". It tells the story of an
orphan girl whose father was killed in the war.
- And you know, a young man
once committed suicide and wrote my poem in his suicide letter! - wanted to brag
to the young statue.
Loud laughter arose.
- Find something to be proud
of!
- By the way, are you aware
that a new statue is going to be erected next to us this month?
- Whose?
- I don't know. But according
to people, he died recently. He was still young.
- He died of an illness?
- Yes, he couldn't find the
money to get treatment abroad. And now they're going to put a statue on him for
a lot of money. Do you think he will rest peacefully in the Heaven?
- Don't be ironic! Not
everyone gets a statue. Only those who win hearts with their works are worthy
of this honor. After all, everyone's fate is different.
- Brother, isn't it better to
appreciate talented people while they're alive?
- In my opinion, it is better
than to be forgotten after death. If you take Kafka, for example, what did
he...
- I know, I know. Okay, I
won't disagree. Not all writers were as rich as Tolstoy.
- As Marquez put it, there are
enough other professions to starve to death... In general, you don't have to
look at creativity as a source of livelihood, because it doesn't prevent you
from mastering other professions.
- What can I say, for I was
not a rich man like you, but lived only by honest work.
- My dear, the main thing is
that now you are here among us.
Sometimes we talked briefly,
and then there was silence again for a long time. One morning the pleasant
silence that had lasted several weeks was broken by a loud crack. All the
statues shuddered and looked at the old statue. Not a trace of it was left.
- Poor thing, didn't make it
to spring.
- Yesterday's snow and rain
had not been in vain...
- Damn icicle!
This time, of course, people
noticed it and, gathered around a large pile of debris, discussed the incident
at length. Some blamed the sculptor, some blamed the weather. In the end,
shivering with cold, everyone began to disperse.
A new statue soon appeared in
place of the old one.
Nodirabegim Ibrokhimova was born in
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