statue. ‘How badly it must have turned out for me. And the devil dared me to get involved with that statue!’ ‘It’s a pity! A pity!’ ‘The lanky Englishman was wiping the lens of his camera with his handkerchief. ‘What is he talking about?’ Zhanaidarov asked the interpreter anxiously. ‘He regrets not visiting the statue during the day,’ he explained. ‘You explain to them that there will be another dastarkhan. And being late for a dastarkhan is considered shameful in our society. Tell them,’ the ideological secretary demanded of the interpreter. ‘Oh! Tastarkhan!’ cried the long-haired Englishman. ‘Opyat tastarkhan!’ ‘Da, da, da,’ said the secretary of the Communist Party, calling everyone to his side with a broad gesture. ‘The Kazakhs like to eat meat late at night!’ The interpreter immediately translated the words. ‘Uh-oh! Shkotland!’ another Brit exclaimed. ‘I’m a Scotsman. We like our scran too…’ The last words were said in English, and when the interpreter translated them into Kazakh everyone laughed in unison. The secretary of the regional committee said a warm goodbye to everyone and left for the regional centre. Before leaving, he took Zhanaidarov aside: ‘Your statue is a success. It is standing here as if it were alive. It’s a very realistic statue,’ he praised. ‘It should be nominated for the State Prize!’ ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ muttered Zhanaidarov, com- pletely losing his head at these words. ‘What’s the matter with you? You are shivering so much, are you ill or something?’ ‘No, no! I’m… touched by your words!’ No sooner had the black Volga disappeared from view than someone’s soul-shattering shriek was heard by the plinth. Everyone involuntarily looked around. The long-haired Englishman, who was about to take a picture of the statue, froze with his head up and his mouth open, holding the camera in his outstretched hands. ‘Oh!’ he mumbled, poking his fingers somewhere upwards. For Zhanaidarov, who realised that trouble had struck, his soul left his body. The Scotsman was singing something, rasping in his own language to his dazed countrymen. ‘What could have happened has already happened!’ thought Zhanaidarov, and came to his senses. The sheepskin in Ashten’s outstretched hands fluttered in the strong wind. There was an incredible uproar around the statue. Everyone huddled around Zhanaidarov and demanded an answer: ‘What is it? Why is the skin in the sculpture’s hands moving? Maybe it was only an optical illusion?

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