The Mountain and the Wall by Alisa Ganieva Read Free Book Online

fingers pressed firmly onto the polished tabletop.
    “All of you, every one in this room, is being duped—it’s pure provocation!” he began, swallowing the endings of his words. “Listen to me, Where did this unverified information come from? Instead of sowing panic in the population, we need to—hear me?—need to deal with the ringleaders, the liars and conspirators who are spreading these rumors. Give me a crack at them, I’ll tear their heads off with my bare hands!”
    “Sharapudin Muradovich, what do you mean, ‘unverified?’” A solidly built bleach-blonde demanded from the corner.
    The bald man frowned, then turned toward her, lifting his hands from the table and waving them in the air: “Where are you getting this nonsense! Listen to me! The information I have is absolutely reliable. I’m on the phone with Moscow every minute! The Caucasus is Russia’s primary defense in the struggle against terrorism, it’s a buffer, hear me? A wellspring of democracy! What wall? You really believe that Internet-schminternet?”
    Shamil leaned against the conference-room wall, which was warm in spite of the air conditioning. It felt as though the vague sense ofapprehension that had been bothering him recently was beginning to crystalize. The contours of this mythological wall, rising inexorably on the border with the purpose of isolating the Caucasus from Russia, began to take on a frightening clarity in his imagination.
    “If that’s the way it is, then it’s our own fault,” said a thin man with birthmarks on his face, gesticulating wildly. “We didn’t say a word when they started bringing in Salafi literature by the truckload. When they murdered our politicians, everyone knew who was responsible, and no one said a word! I’m telling you, not a word! And if the police can go around breaking the law…”
    “What do the police have to do with it?” A stout man in a blue police shirt asked, leaping to his feat. “What kind of khapur-chapur is that? Why change the subject? When have the police ever broken the law?”
    “I’m not about to go down the list,” the skinny man tried to backtrack, gesturing grandly at the policeman.
    “And where are you getting this garbage?”
    “It’s in the papers.”
    “So everything you read in the papers is true?”
    The man in the beige jacket swept his mop of hair back from his forehead and raised his palms in an effort to calm things down.
    “Friends, friends, let us have sabur. I’ve already told you that no one in Moscow has confirmed the rumors…”
    “They haven’t, but ordinary people have,” the young man butted in, poking his lower lip out even more.
    “Even if it is true,” continued the man in beige, his palms still raised in the air, “our friendship with Russia will continue. They keep saying that we’re a subsidized region. But look, so long as we don’t have to pay any taxes, we can always feed ourselves. We have oil and gas, and there’s copper in the south. We’re a transport hubbetween Europe and Asia, we have a seaport that’s open year round, pipelines, hydroelectric plants, heavy industry, wineries, fisheries. We’re the country’s number-one producer of cheese and vegetables. Not to mention the resorts: balneo—…balneotherapeutic and mud spas, beaches, mountain resorts—whatever you want, we have. Handmade carpets, lumber, ceramics by the truckload! No other republic comes close, not a single one!”
    “Shamil Magomedov has just come back from Kubachi, where he was interviewing the craftsmen there,” interjected Shamil’s brother-in-law.
    “There you go!” The man in beige said triumphantly. “How are our artists doing up there?”
    “They used to make arms, real ones, but now they’ve started mass-producing souvenirs. Soon there won’t be anything left of any value,” answered Shamil without smiling.
    “On the other hand, they’ll get their goods onto the international market and establish trade relations.” The