FOUR ROMANTIC STORIES
First story
Our ears got accustomed to burst of sub-machine guns and our eyes got accustomed to see armed people around. But moreover, there is hardly any person who is prepared for missile attacks. Brother was sitting at the right side of the gate on a gas pipe. Sister has gone to musical school to take piano lessons. Mother was in hospital. She was not treated for fatal diseases, she was simply working as a nurse. Father died of vodka poisoning two years ago. He was either in Paradise or in Hell. The difference is inessential. I was just going past the market.
The missile firing started. It was said to be"Crystal". The missile having destructive force was not powerful. But it made an awful noise. The fear filled my mouth with some substance of an unknown origin.
If I remember correctly, the last "Crystal" found itself in the pet market. Everything around disappeared in the dust and fog. The people began to yell furiously. Feathers began to hover in the air in whirlwind. A few hens caught hold of the mulberry tree branches. The tree might seem to bear hens instead of fruit. Something like an action film.
Second story
He used to live alone 400 meters from the crossroad right at entry to the village in the second house from the right. He inherited from his father a big yard, many fruit trees, deep well and a small house. Soviet poets used to speak of tyrants, despots of empire whatever they thought of them. They did it wisely and skillfully. They did it in such a way is if their characters, most of whom were fools or weak-minded persons, made the criticism. He was neither a fool nor weak-minded person. He was ill, he was simply ill. He pulled up his trousers up to the chest. He fastened the belt so tightly that he seemed to be about to burst and his trousers would get down to his knee and if rural old women saw this happen, they would cover their faces archly and begin to whisper in one another's ear. He was wearing galoshes with trousers-leg in the socks. He was dancing at the wedding on one leg very comfortably and during the funeral he devoured more than two plates of pilaw. He has been growing beard all the year round. He used to bring in all kinds of metallic items such as iron cans found in dustbins, holed buckets of the cooperative apartment lying at the side of the road, rusty gun silencers and others. I can swear that the height of the pile of scrap metals lying in his yard was 20 or 22 meters. No one even ventured to come close to that burrow. He was ready to break anyone head into pieces. He was also ready to deal with anyone who tried to play a joke on him.
He kept on insisting: I will make an airplane and fly away from here. Undoubtedly, I will surely make an airplane, but I don't know whether I will fly away or not. Honest to God, these are his own words. Evil tongues wagged that he had gone mad on account of the fact he had read too many books in his life. The day when the Armenians attacked the village, everybody escaped and saved their lives. He was the only one who had been taken prisoner. Something like an action film.
Third story
I learnt about this story from Rey Kerimoglu, a participant of the Karabakh War. Below is the story told by him : Our small headquarter was located in a quiet village where five or six old people were still living. They did not have any relatives in the nearest regions. A lonely old man was selling sunflowers, cigarette pieces and Iranian chewing gums at home. He was somewhat deaf. We, soldiers, in order to buy something from him we did not knock at his door and neither did we call him. Anyway, he would not hear us. We simply fired a burst and the old man came out. Such adjusted relations were convenient both for us and for him.
To our sudden, the Armenians attacked the village. There was skirmish. Hearing the sounds of numerous guns, the old man rushed out into the yard. He thought that people wishing to buy cigarettes, sunflowers or chewing gums from him are many more. The bullet struck right in his yard before his house. Something like an action film.
Forth and final story
I did not know him personally. But I have heard many jokes about him. Few people knew his first name, since he was called by his last name. He had a habit of jeering at mullahs during funeral banquets. He used to amuse rural bourgeoisie at noisy feasts. He has never left the borders of his village. He has not served in the Soviet Army. He used bad and foul language which did not hurt anybody. In any company he appeared people used to smile. He was a genuine “rural classic. People used to feed him, gave him a lift, dress him. They did it all free of charge. And more, they put money into his pocket. In short, he was very famous in the village. I talked to a man who last saw him alive. Here what he told: So, I am leaving my village. There is no fuel in the car. The red indicator started to blink. All the drivers who had petrol had already left. Behind the hills one could hear sounds of skirmish. I saw him sitting at the side of the road and smoking quietly. Usually poets in search of an appropriate rhyme smoke in the same manner. He did not look like a man who was hurrying. He was looking into the distance. His face was thoughtful. He threw away the cigarette end and began to smoke the second one. Something like an action film.
- Get up! Why are you sitting? The petrol in the tank is being finished. If you don't come with me, you will be taken prisoner.
- Do you see that bridge?
- I do.
- No dog knows me behind that bridge. Where shall I go?
Seymur Baijan
17-02-2007
Our ears got accustomed to burst of sub-machine guns and our eyes got accustomed to see armed people around. But moreover, there is hardly any person who is prepared for missile attacks. Brother was sitting at the right side of the gate on a gas pipe. Sister has gone to musical school to take piano lessons. Mother was in hospital. She was not treated for fatal diseases, she was simply working as a nurse. Father died of vodka poisoning two years ago. He was either in Paradise or in Hell. The difference is inessential. I was just going past the market.
The missile firing started. It was said to be"Crystal". The missile having destructive force was not powerful. But it made an awful noise. The fear filled my mouth with some substance of an unknown origin.
If I remember correctly, the last "Crystal" found itself in the pet market. Everything around disappeared in the dust and fog. The people began to yell furiously. Feathers began to hover in the air in whirlwind. A few hens caught hold of the mulberry tree branches. The tree might seem to bear hens instead of fruit. Something like an action film.
He used to live alone 400 meters from the crossroad right at entry to the village in the second house from the right. He inherited from his father a big yard, many fruit trees, deep well and a small house. Soviet poets used to speak of tyrants, despots of empire whatever they thought of them. They did it wisely and skillfully. They did it in such a way is if their characters, most of whom were fools or weak-minded persons, made the criticism. He was neither a fool nor weak-minded person. He was ill, he was simply ill. He pulled up his trousers up to the chest. He fastened the belt so tightly that he seemed to be about to burst and his trousers would get down to his knee and if rural old women saw this happen, they would cover their faces archly and begin to whisper in one another's ear. He was wearing galoshes with trousers-leg in the socks. He was dancing at the wedding on one leg very comfortably and during the funeral he devoured more than two plates of pilaw. He has been growing beard all the year round. He used to bring in all kinds of metallic items such as iron cans found in dustbins, holed buckets of the cooperative apartment lying at the side of the road, rusty gun silencers and others. I can swear that the height of the pile of scrap metals lying in his yard was 20 or 22 meters. No one even ventured to come close to that burrow. He was ready to break anyone head into pieces. He was also ready to deal with anyone who tried to play a joke on him.
He kept on insisting: I will make an airplane and fly away from here. Undoubtedly, I will surely make an airplane, but I don't know whether I will fly away or not. Honest to God, these are his own words. Evil tongues wagged that he had gone mad on account of the fact he had read too many books in his life. The day when the Armenians attacked the village, everybody escaped and saved their lives. He was the only one who had been taken prisoner. Something like an action film.
I learnt about this story from Rey Kerimoglu, a participant of the Karabakh War. Below is the story told by him : Our small headquarter was located in a quiet village where five or six old people were still living. They did not have any relatives in the nearest regions. A lonely old man was selling sunflowers, cigarette pieces and Iranian chewing gums at home. He was somewhat deaf. We, soldiers, in order to buy something from him we did not knock at his door and neither did we call him. Anyway, he would not hear us. We simply fired a burst and the old man came out. Such adjusted relations were convenient both for us and for him.
To our sudden, the Armenians attacked the village. There was skirmish. Hearing the sounds of numerous guns, the old man rushed out into the yard. He thought that people wishing to buy cigarettes, sunflowers or chewing gums from him are many more. The bullet struck right in his yard before his house. Something like an action film.
I did not know him personally. But I have heard many jokes about him. Few people knew his first name, since he was called by his last name. He had a habit of jeering at mullahs during funeral banquets. He used to amuse rural bourgeoisie at noisy feasts. He has never left the borders of his village. He has not served in the Soviet Army. He used bad and foul language which did not hurt anybody. In any company he appeared people used to smile. He was a genuine “rural classic. People used to feed him, gave him a lift, dress him. They did it all free of charge. And more, they put money into his pocket. In short, he was very famous in the village. I talked to a man who last saw him alive. Here what he told: So, I am leaving my village. There is no fuel in the car. The red indicator started to blink. All the drivers who had petrol had already left. Behind the hills one could hear sounds of skirmish. I saw him sitting at the side of the road and smoking quietly. Usually poets in search of an appropriate rhyme smoke in the same manner. He did not look like a man who was hurrying. He was looking into the distance. His face was thoughtful. He threw away the cigarette end and began to smoke the second one. Something like an action film.
- Get up! Why are you sitting? The petrol in the tank is being finished. If you don't come with me, you will be taken prisoner.
- Do you see that bridge?
- I do.
- No dog knows me behind that bridge. Where shall I go?
Seymur Baijan
17-02-2007