Chapter 7
Give me a break
Funny experience it was, taking a public bus, having twenty hundred dollars in pocket, just eager to discover the notion of public transportation. My dad – the very oil magnate I mentioned before, was so angry to hear me taking a trip to Buzovna beach – lying 35 km to the east of the capital – Baku- without necessary precaution – without my personal giant size bodyguard, Jafar- and putting my life and his reputation in danger. I barely stepped in inside the bus when I heard driver roaring like a bear;
“ Hey , are we going to wait for you all day, little rascal.. Chop-chop” – he said – old man in his late 60’s, with peculiar purple long scar on his nose, like he just survived a live-or-die kind of fight.
Bus was so crowded that, it was impossible to take a soon-to-be vacated seat for at least an hour, only women and children sitting, remainder, squeezing on each other somehow to get the best position near the middledoor to be able to get off without getting polished shoes dirty or potentially without falling victim for local “goldfinger” pocket-pickers, most of them holding from straps hanging from shiny overhead bar. I’m yet not mentioning the terrible heat.
Nevertheless, I did not give a damn about being robbed or assaulted inside overburdened public bus. The problem I pondered on was, how I was supposed to pay a bus fare and the how I was supposed to get off from this “human jungle”. It has been my first experience with everyday social hardships of lower income population that I had later learned comprised absolute majority in my country. I recently watched the news feed describing living in skid rows of Western countries, people having sex in midst of a dirty and dark streets, drug addicts engaged in needle-sharing “business” in the corner, beggars and bums scuffling over a wallet they had found. I was so irritated with that view, that imagined all low income people as dirty as them, like it was their mistake for getting fired, becoming failures and loosers and spits of society.
But that day, I felt for poor people, for the first time I – myself became one of them – people rushing to work, rushing to earn money with their blood and sweat in an unfair work conditions, sacrificing their youth, energy, precious time, to make both ends meet, to feed their kids.
All those thoughts had been disrupted by squeaking voice o midage gypsy woman.
“Ay camaat, kimin nәyә gücü çatırsa kömәk etsin. ( You all good people, help me with whatever you can,) - she urged the commuters nearby, amplifying her call with hysterical cry and tears. – And olsun ki, dilәnçi, qaraçı deyilәm, yeganә ümidim sizsiniz ( You might think I’m beggar or gypsy, but I swear I’m not, you’re my last hope). Oğlum sәtәlcәm olub, ölüm ayağındadı, әmәliyyatı üçün pul yığıram ( My son is in deathbed suffering from pneumonia, I’m collecting donations for his surgery) – she showed the photo of purportedly her son in deathbed that very much looked like a high definition photo taken by Associated Press photographer for covering some humanitarian crisis and hunger story in Yemen, rather than, amateur photo of Azeri kid in his “deathbed” .
As a youngster spending at least 1 hour daily surfing in net, it was crystal clear to me that, the photo was fake , I mean, it was not the picture describing the agony of his son, but a HD photo of some Middle Eastern kid downloaded from internet.
But the thing is, people hypnotized by her voice, believed her charade, as I saw her begging bawl filled with Manat notes rather than coin gapiks, some naïve women putting at least 5 Manats – that could pay the bus fare for at least 25 people and prayed for the healing of her so called “son”.
After bus driver dropped her off at nearby stop, I saw well groomed old man with, with 60’s spy hat on his chubby and bald head, anxiously gazing out of window, straining all his facial muscles to sharpen his impaired vision looking at a certain point, and get frustrated each time bus left certain area behind, making him look like an Indian wobbling his head, after each such cycles. I automatically grabbed from his brown coat in order not to lose my balance as bus driver made rather harsh stop.
“I think its it. I’m totally sure, the very naughty corner, - he said loudly with a jubilant voice, - this is a corner that sucks human flesh and blood daily, every single day, at least one brutal fight, one deadly accident, one deadly car crash in this doomy and dreadful area. – nobody paid attention, thinking of him as a crazy old man, except me, for some reason he turned to me and said
“ You see, young kid, I’m neither lunatic nor idiot, I’m 72 year old retired physician, and I’m telling you this is one hell of a cursed place. The first time I experienced supernatural environment of this place more than six decades ago, driving bicycle on the way home, and assure you with a quite low speed, I bumped into another cyclist same as my your age, head-on, can you believe it, crush of two bicycles, look – he showed and old age scar on dorsum of his left hand.
“I believe you grandpa” – I said in a cordial tone.
“Give me a break, and you believe his bullshit” - I heard horrible voice, right behind my ears, turned back it was a thin and tall punk, with long black hair, and metal, piercing and chain all around his body, with scent of alcohol coming out of his ugly mouse
“You mind your own business” - I replied blatantly
“Hey little moron,--burp- this time nasty smell much more heavier made, raged nearby standing women – already irritated with the shortage of fresh air inside overburdened bus- who attacked him , slapping and scratching his face, all other passengers stepping aside and not meddling, and justifying the passenger justice, punk only hiding his face and begging them to stop amidst laughter of onlookers, including myself.
Driver intentionally pulls to the side of the road, stops the bus and opens the middle door for him to escape. He almost jumps out of bus, stumbles his left leg and falls onto concrete pavement. I turn back to an old man, to check his reaction and see a vacant seat ready to be taken by a fat woman – one of attackers, mysterious grandpa vanished, I look around no sign of him inside bus. “He must have gotten off…”- nearby man says seeing me looking for him astounded. “from the front doors”.
“Mister Driver please stop!” – “let me get off”- I said as bus gradually gain the speed and close the middle door. Nevertheless he stops one more time, risking to lose his license, for stopping in the middle of the road, causing impediment for cars behind.
I look around to get familiar with the area that very much resembles evacuated industrial district, with closed and rotten “Soviet Era” factories and other storage facilities, including 3-4 apartment building for current retirees that used to work in those factories, lying almost 1 km all along the road. Old grandpa standing in front of seem to be working but still dirty grocery store, astonished to see me there, hit the bricks and made hasty right turn at a narrow alley.
I don’t know why but I felt an utmost urgency to chase him and ask him to finish his story, out of purely ‘kiddish’ interest. As I was turning the corner, I heard loud sound of explosion 200 meters behind me, on highway. Here you go. He was right about a curse or something paranormal originated on this street. It was a car that exploded, dunno whether hit by terrorist group that was quite unlikely, or blasted after massive crash. I hoped the driver or passengers were alive.
Feeling no obligation to rush to the scene and somehow help or assist – that was quite strange, I moved on and turned right , like a piece of metal attracted by the magnet. Someone suddenly attacked as I felt strong arms grip me in a violent manner and shoving me back, further through the dark alley, towards a waste container. I was unable even to move finger or somehow resist this bustard. Oh my God.
I recognized his appearance. It was him, the old man – the storyteller – WTF. This old “wrestler” pinned me against the dirty, brick wall, still gripping my shirt and flesh with his left hand (that terrible hurt), freeing his right hand for something unexpected as I heard a familiar click of a folding pocket knife. Then he went whispering that creeped me out most of all
“Are you alone? have you been followed?”
“No, please let me go”
“Stop whining you little piece of shit” - “You wearing golden watch ha?”
Indeed, it was expensive Swiss watch with my initials engraved on it, a gift by my late uncle whom I loved most of all in this life before he died in a car accident. “What a stupid of me not to notice”. Old rascal was going for my watch when I stopped his hand, whilst tip of a knife still pressing my throat.
“Please, not my watch, it holds so many memories…damn it…My left pocket is full with money. Take all but not my watch please…”
He stopped for second and then tried to check whether I was telling the truth.
“Any trick and I’ll slice open your throat…all right?
“Yes…promise..
He put his bulky hand in my pocket and pulled out the stack of cash, dazzled by the view green notes, the easiest bonus of his entire life. “Can you believe it ! Are you some kind a millionaire or what?” – he didn’t count just put the money into inside pocket of his coat, picking my watch with his greedy old eyes.
“Now I’ll take this watch”
“But I gave you all of my money”
“In a black market such watch can be sold for five thousand manats….so whom are you kidding?”
“But I told you it is my precious belonging, I have memories”
“Screw your memories” he gave me slap with his free hand and went for my watch again. This time I exerted all the energy that early teenager may have, and kicked him in the balls. But for my surprise, it didn’t hurt him. Instead, I felt cold piece of steel going inside me, that gashed open my lower abdomen. Soon hot pain scattered all around my body; speed of leaking blood adjusted by my heart beat. I was gradually losing my consciousness, greedy coldblooded granpa who gave no damn about my state, pressed me from my throat for me to stay stable, and pulled out the watch.
“Hey…what’s going on here?....i heard familiar voice that made old bustard stop as he was caught red handed. “You piece of trash…I knew there was something wrong with you, let the boy go”. He must have though old man was trying to molest me or something. Grandpa didn’t risk his trophy and ran away. I immediately collapsed falling onto tiny pool of blood of mine. I felt someone holding me in friendly manner.
“ Oh my God, he stabbed poor little guy… Help! We’ve got wounded minor here. Help!.... “everything gonna be OK kid, don’t worry , we gonna get you to hospital and everything just gonna be fine.”
For the last time I made huge efforts to open my eyes. Believe me or not, he was young drunk punk who had been kicked out of bus by bunch of angry commuters. The man with whom I argued before.