worry about. What’s wrong with telling him, let him know…” He just shook his head. “You’re a tough nut to crack,” he said, emphasising the ‘you’ specifically. Malika lowered her eyes modestly. Jasyn climbed the first step and immediately looked back: Malika’s eyelashes were trembling, holding back tears. Jasyn, wanting to cheer her up, said to her with a laugh: “So, you haven’t been able to come up with a nick- name for me for several years now, have you?” Malika, like a child admitting their guilt, spread her hands… He watched her until the bus rounded a rocky hill… Again and again, he thought about Bagila, that now they would not strive to forget each other, about the words of the father to his daughter, coming from his heart, about Malika’s recent tears. Why was that woman crying? He will never know this. Somehow, the fatigue that had accumulated over the past weeks immediately flooded in. In a light, half-sleep on the road, his wife and two children again stood before his eyes. God, why is he seeing them in the hospital room? Why are people’s faces so pale…? And the children? And they too… What are his relatives doing here? They seem to be saying… Yes, he clearly hears: “Their father will not come. He will never come. He will not slip through and say: I’m sorry, it’s all my fault.” 1979 Translated from Russian by Timur Akhmedjanov Edited by Gareth Stamp Typeset Alexandra Rey

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