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

with Sharapudin Muradovich’s hoarse bass the loudest of them all.
    Shamil hesitated for a moment, then stepped outside. Everything still looked the same as ever. He took in the narrow intersection where cumbersome transport taxi-vans were beeping stridently, then at some girls, chattering and laughing, who were clustered around the entrance to an ugly glass-fronted building featuring a multitude of fashion posters and shop signs, then at a bread-seller’s stall, with a head wrapped in a scarf poking out. The head shouted somethingto a gaggle of barelegged boys who were running in the direction of a wooden fence covered with ads that had been built around an abandoned construction site. Cheerful shrieks could be heard from behind the fence; a huge puddle had formed in the excavation pit, and enterprising neighborhood kids had turned it into an improvised swimming pool and were splashing around. Across the street from the editorial office stood a row of brightly colored private cottages and crooked white huts, on one of which someone had scrawled a note in charcoal: FLOUR FOR SALE.
    Shamil turned the corner and went up to a table under a canopy where a woman sat limply, half-stupefied by the hot sun, selling kvass. He bought a big plastic glassful for a few ten-ruble coins, and walked over to a sun-scorched flower bed. Nearby stood a faded acacia tree, casting a meager shadow on the multicolored sidewalk slabs.
    He sat down under the acacia on a bench covered with graffiti scrawled in black marker, sipped his kvass and stared thoughtfully at the street. In spite of the heat, a lot of people were outside, and the scene was alive with sound. Music blared from the little coffee shops and mixed with the buzzing of a chainsaw, the excited shouts of passersby, and the chirping of locusts. Shamil tried dialing Uncle Alikhan again, again with no success. “What am I so scared of?” he asked himself, straightening up in his seat.
    He didn’t want to go back to the editorial office, especially since he figured he would be getting a regular job soon. Omargadzhi had told him that he would see what he could find out about a good position for him that might be opening up in the courthouse. Shamil gulped down the rest of his kvass, crushed the plastic cup, and looked around for a trash can. Failing to find one, he left the cup on the bench. He had to see Omargadzhi right away. He stood up and started off inthe direction of the waterfront, where a number of lawyers’ offices clustered in old, moldy-smelling wooden courtyards.
    Turning down one of the streets there, Shamil ran into Khabibula. Khabibula gave a little hop for joy, jiggling his big barrel-shaped belly, beamed, baring rows of gold teeth, and started babbling: “ Salam , Shamil! Where are you headed? I’ve just gotten back from the kutan, I brought back milk, cottage cheese, and some other stuff. Vallakh, I didn’t want to go, wanted to send Marat, but I had no choice. Look at the shape my shoes are in!” he said, gesturing at his tattered sandals. “I’m going to sell the milk and cheese and then I’ll buy some shoes, a brand-new pair. Salimat will yell at me, but is it my fault? I tore them today, walking around the city. They’re replacing the pipes on our street, there’s mud everywhere, and sharp stones…Why not come along with me, my friend—where are you headed in such a hurry?”
    “I’m going to see Omargadzhi, to ask him about a job.”
    “Which Omargadzhi? K’Iurbanizul Omargadzhi?” Khabibula chuckled gleefully, wiping his wrinkled mouth as he walked. “He came to see me at the tenth kutan : I beat him at chess twenty times! Twenty! When he sees me now, he takes off running…”
    “Have you heard the rumors, Khabibula?” asked Shamil, slowing down and trying to match his steps to his companion’s short stride.
    “What rumors? Oh, you must mean about Mesedu’s roof tiles being blown down in Shamkhal? Sure I have. Salimat told me. She should