To the envy of Gods

I was eight. Mother-doe was put to death, the boy was crying. I don’t remember anything but these sequences. I only remember my understanding of some occurred terrible curse, which cannot be understood only by those, who were cursed, and because of this become even more monstrous. I also understood that this strange movie narrated about the death of memory, about the predetermination of the future…
But mostly I was scared because of the fact that I felt my inexplicable participation in this story. It somehow related to me, pestered my soul visited my dreams …
 
Now, after years I understood that exactly this way, tangentially similar to magic potion, Aitmatov has entered my life, my consciousness, germinated in me placing in my soul anxiety to loose a connection with the beyond the world, which is in the other side of the vision, the world, which is too great to view, and thus particularly often inaccessible – for my Soul.
This way I found myself in the tribe of one-hundred-thousands poisoned by his healing venom. The life with all its inexhaustible arsenal of vanity diligently treats us from this disease.   And now more often we feel ourselves healthy and free from unnecessary thoughts, cheerfully raise children and earn money. Yet, …
Doctors often tell stories about strange phenomenon – their patients sometimes for years complain about pain in amputated leg… And explain – this is Memory. 
When Muhtar Ablyazov told me that he wants to invite him to the Board of the Bank, I almost screwed up my eyes. This is similar to quasi ugly old maid was offered to marry crown prince. While trying to look like fascinated, I mumbled something which meant that this invitation was thus much sudden and exactly because of this it shall be done.
I could only guess how many women, ambitious or selfless, were ready to devote their all lives for him. Not the magic of his name but staggering beauty caught me by surprise, when I saw wandering eighty years old dandy, dressed in irreproachable carelessness, peculiar to good taste.
I don’t like to take autographs. I don’t like to be photographed with celebrities. I don’t like to demonstrate chummy manners with them. But he patiently and even to some extent honestly signed his books, understanding, these are not the richest costs of fame. Apparently, I somehow was stupidly dumbfounded, that he asked: and where is your book? I would write something for you too…
I said something in husky voice: could I do this later…
Colleagues have looked at me with such indignation that I also hurriedly slipped my copy. He wrote in Kyrgyz: “Karlygash – with senile blessings, Aitmatov…”
God has punished me. After forgetting how to value signs of destiny, I imagined that our frequent meetings would end up with blessed happiness to sit near him curled up, drink tea with jam and with presumptuous serenity of person in love and ask him about his non-creative plans for future. No. But ask him about thing he dreamed in childhood. Whether he likes scent of apple tree, blooming in April? Whether he remembers the color of hair of his first woman? How he tricked the Soviet authorities? And whether he misses that attention and fame, which was typical to Kremlin? And what he thought about Kyrgyzstan, embraced with democratic malaria? And whether he knows the price for silence? And if he simply did not notice the change of regimes? Because people around remained the same… How he manages to pick up such stylish ties to his suits? Whether he sometimes fears that the literature slips away from him? Why the lives of people and animals are always interweaved?  Why he is always in a hurry?.. How to get used to pain? And whether it worth the efforts?
He promised to me that precisely like this would everything be. That he would return from Tatarstan and we thoroughly and tastefully, would waste our time around. Because he was very, very kind. I understood it after getting used to his handsomeness. Believe me – such combination is almost absent: beauty could be met sometimes but the kindness already for a long time more rarely is mentioned even simply as a word. And here everything at once – in him.
I wasn’t on time.
Moreover, – which is more important.
It seems to me, I guess about one of his secrets, which he if not hid, then at least haven’t mentioned. It seems that he very much liked Pasternak. Because of the single known only to them both reason. And the thing is not that the novel was named “And the day is lasting more than century”. And not because of the reason that he dreamed to live on his country cottage. He wanted to talk to him about something…
Now they would meet each other…
But I would never know about it now… 
Well then, I didn’t deserve it.
During our last meeting it was evident that he was very tired. But, as inherent to man, and not to old man, he, of course, could not acknowledge it. Remembered suddenly, recalling, that luggage for the trip hasn’t been packed. Gave flowers to me – previously given to him by someone else – white roses. Last. Well, even this. Even though I didn’t have time to ask him. But I was the last women to whom he gave the flowers. There is no fortuity in life …
All of us now are his property. And in our best minutes are almost like him …
It was noisy, stuffy, all the time some people came up, photographed with him as on the background of historical relic. He patiently endured this, humbly shook someone’s clammy hands and with his eyes asked to end everything …
How remarkably wisely He arranged everything that the life has generously awarded him. He didn’t have this demonic estrangement on his face that often wore his fellows. He liked and knew how to drink. He liked beautiful life and beautiful women. Was not it fastidious to fame?  In short… In a word, carefully and finely he kept his Loneliness.

Time is literally is the afterword to everything in this world… And a poet … is the first who knows it. It is an identity of language and time.
Joseph Brodsky