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Each of his words was his death sentence. In the morning, the neighbor was arrested, in the afternoon he was tried with a group of "conspirators," all of whom willingly claimed him as their own, and in the evening he was shot… If there are deadly jokes, this one was suicidal.

Aman-Jalil began to demonstrate his omnipotence.

Winter and spring flew by unnoticed. Upon Gulshan's demand, her husband rewrote his house and all his property to her, and he now lived in his own house as a lodger. The widow pitied him and took care of him, feeding him, washing his clothes, while Gulshan paid him no attention, as if he didn't exist. People are like that: they love those whom they do good to and hate those whom they offend or harm, willingly or unwittingly. The chauffeur courted Gulshan lovingly, trying to please her in everything, catching every glance from her, while his wife silently envied her daughter, silent but watching their every move.

In the summer, Gulshan's mother gave birth to a girl, and Gulshan gave birth to a boy. Her first childbirth was difficult, and Gulshan was to spend at least a month in the maternity hospital. Aman-Jalil visited her, but not daily.

– A chief can't show undue interest in his subordinate, – he reassured her.

In reality, however, Aman-Jalil had cooled towards Gulshan. He became infatuated with a cabaret singer. The woman turned out to be unyielding, and it was difficult for Aman-Jalil to arrest her on suspicion of espionage and enjoy her for the three lawful days of preliminary investigation. Almost every day, Aman-Jalil visited the young detainees in prison. The newcomer was transferred to a specially equipped cell, where there was a nickel-plated bed with a soft net, delicacies and alcoholic beverages were brought to the cell, and Aman-Jalil spent three nights in the prison. Having enjoyed the fresh air, Aman-Jalil released her, even if she was actually a spy. But if the girl resisted, then she was tied by her arms and legs to the bedposts, and Aman-Jalil got what he wanted, but in that case, a queue of guards lined up after him, anyone who was free and willing, patients with venereal diseases were put at the end of the line, and the poor victim serviced everyone against their will. Sometimes the weak victims breathed their last under another sweaty and stinking body. If the scandal couldn't be hushed up, the guards drew lots, and the one who drew the lot was "disgraced" from his job. A report on the harsh measures taken was sent upstairs, and Aman-Jalil placed the failure somewhere in the area.

But Nigyar, as the singer was called, belonged to those circles where Aman-Jalil had not yet been granted access and where he was eager to enter. Perhaps that's why Aman-Jalil craved her love, admiration, her attachment. But this "ungrateful" woman refused to see him, sent back expensive gifts. But most offensive to Aman-Jalil was that Nigyar was the wife of Kasym-the-know-it-all, who had tormented him with mockery at school. Kasym worked as a compere, leading his wife's concerts, filling the pauses between numbers with jokes, humorous sketches… His wife, apparently, had told him about Aman-Jalil's courtship, and Kasym publicly shamed him, not naming names, but Aman-Jalil understood everything, he had already learned to understand half-words, and Kasym-the-know-it-all he always understood. And he always had the desire to slap Kasym like a fly, he hated this brazen, insolent man.

But his hands were tied. Kasym was a relative of Ahmed himself, not close, but a relative. And it was impossible to take him with bare hands. Especially since at all government concerts, Kasym spoke the right words, only those that are allowed to be spoken. But at government concerts, Kasym did not perform so often. But at regular concerts, Kasym, as Aman-Jalil found out, also managed to work as an intelligence officer, catching foreign agents who flew into our "world center" under the guise of musicians. Kasym was very intelligent, for Aman-Jalil's love of Nigyar's family, the government would not touch him. And so the matter was at an impasse.

Times were changing, but Kasym couldn't change quickly enough. He often had a strange dream: that wings were growing out of him and he was leaping off a cliff, flying far, far away through the darkness of the night towards the horizon ablaze with the dawn's flickers. Yet, the wings started to fall apart feather by feather, and how helpless his hands felt in the air, how powerless they were, nothing to lean on, nowhere to hold onto, and the abyss was endless, and as he fell, Kasym gradually dissolved into the air, or rather merged…

Aman-Jalil decided to try to destroy Kasym, to "catch" him on something. For this, he needed qualified help. So, he summoned Ayesha, a well-known writer in the city and throughout the country. Aman-Jalil knew well that the writer also worked in the circus and cabaret, writing sketches and replays under the pseudonym Pendyr. The summons to the inquisition already evoked a tremor of respect in the law-abiding hearts of citizens; for many, this summons proved to be final, and they did not return home. Therefore, the writer, pale as a wall, looked obsequiously at Aman-Jalil and was ready for anything. Aman-Jalil spent a long time compiling lists of "conspirators," paying no attention to Ayesha. Then he graciously noticed him.

– Dear Ayesha! Have you been here long? These secretaries don't understand anything about visitors. They have one measure for everyone. And I'm exhausted, I have no strength left.

– It's okay, it's okay, – stammered Ayesha, – I'll wait, I have plenty of time, not in a hurry.

– Once we summon someone here, they stop thinking about work. They're only interested in their own skin. Do you understand me, my friend?

– Clearly, how could I not understand, I completely agree with you.

– Do you know that your relative has been arrested?

– I know, of course, but I declare that he is not my relative and not even of the same surname. Among the Ayeshas, there have never been degenerates.

– A major conspirator, eh! I swear by my father, I don't know what to do: he claims that you, dear respected writer, knew about his conspiracy. No, he doesn't say you were involved, I don't claim that, it's up to the investigator to say, but he knew.

Ayesha slid off the chair onto his knees.

– I swear by my father, I didn't know, damn it, I've only seen this relative once. I'll eat dirt, he's deceiving you, dear chief.

– Perhaps, perhaps, they're capable of anything. But unfortunately, it's possible that you will still learn about the delights of Bibir Island.

Ayesha banged his forehead on the floor.

– I beg you, dear Aman-Jalil, save me, I'll do anything for you, want me to write a book for you "Iosif Besarionis and the Children," and you can present it to the Great Leader.

– Let's think about it, let's think… Listen, do you know Kasym?

– I've met him, but he doesn't read my stories from the stage, prefers to write them himself.

– Write one that he will read, one that can get him arrested. "Set him up," and I'll remove you from the lists, I promise. Are you willing to help me?

– I'll do everything, boss!… There's one story about Iosif Besarionis's mustache.

– Listen, isn't that the one whose author is already relaxing on the island?

– I'll offer it to Kasym as my own. No one knows about this story.

– Go, work for the good of your country.

There were such terrible rumors about the delights of Bibir Island, and the writer's imagination was so rich that Ayesha had to drink heart drops at home, even though his heart was perfectly healthy… Taking a copy of the manuscript from its hiding place, for which the author was arrested not without Ayesha's help, he retyped it on his typewriter. Kasym had other manuscripts, and he could accidentally compare the fonts. But Ayesha didn't dare to call Kasym and personally hand him the story, afraid to reveal himself with something. So, he called Kasym's friend, the cabaret director Bulov, and asked him to come over in the evening to take the manuscript for Kasym. Bulov willingly agreed; Ayesha always had good cognac, as soon as he hinted that gasoline was expensive these days, Ayesha pulled out a bottle of Courvoisier from the buffet and poured a glass. Bulov, slowly savoring, squeezed out the cognac and, taking the manuscript for Kasym, left. On the way, he stopped by the club of underground millionaires, met a couple of acquaintances in the buffet, drank a glass of vodka on their tab, washing it down with a glass of dry wine, then his friends persuaded him to take them to a restaurant to meet the veterans of the battles in the Serra mountains, the veterans had already stopped consuming strong spirits. Overloaded beyond measure, Bulov remembered that he promised to deliver the manuscript to Kasym.