never recover from this unexpected blow, but five or six months passed, and the grief suddenly faded away easily, a blush played on Sargel’s face again. When meeting with friends, he joked. The tense mood gave way to fun without resisting. Previously, when his wife was alive, he walked as if lowered into water, there was nothing in his head but suspicions and jealousy, but now, freed from her, he was freed from jealousy, it became easy, free. True, sometimes some distant and almost cold feeling of guilt pricked him, at that moment it hurt, and it was hard under his heart, but time went on and on, and finally that feeling of the cold edge died down, and nothing bothered him, nothing interferes with life, it was as he wanted. A year later, he married Malika. She had been married once before him. Her husband played the drum in the orchestra of one of the prestigious restaurants in Almaty. When he met her, he introduced himself as a composer. Looking at his long, poorly combed hair, huge beard, listening to stories about music, Malika considered it quite possible. At that time, she worked as a saleswoman in the Bereke national food store. The ‘composer’ did not drag out the whole ‘acquaintance’ thing, a month later he proposed to get married. To reject the young talent, who was still unfortunately, quite unlucky in life, was beyond Malika’s strength, and she agreed. Before marriage, it was necessary to introduce the future husband to her parents. She took him to their house, which stood in the suburbs of Almaty. When the hairy groom stepped on the thresh old of the parental home, the children, busy playing, fled to the corners. The old women, who, in anticipation of the bridegroom, were sitting, talking less and less, they could not turn their tongues from surprise. The youth gathered, when the evening reached a certain intensity, the groom showed his art. Coming out to the middle, he began to dance like crazy and suddenly yelled: “Drum! Give me a drum!” “Why does he need a drum, huh?” Malika’s father asked and licked his instantly dry lips. “Give me a drum! I wrote a drum concerto!” Malika’s father was in charge of the educational department at the school. He sent some boys for the drum. The ‘Concerto for a drum without an orchestra’ lasted until three

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