In short, the old man’s life changed thoroughly. He wasn’t seen alone any more, and he even cheered up a little.

Days went by, and everyone noticed that those two proved to be alike. They even walked with the same gait – slow and solemn. Whenever the old man stopped, the dog immediately sat down by his feet, and they gazed at the ocean for hours.

When the winter arrived, the old man made a warm coat for the dog. They walked all day long in the city, always along the shore, of course.

In the café people tried to choose a proper name for the dog, but the old man chose it himself and addressed him as Mr. Fisher.

Nobody had any idea who Mr. Fisher was or why the old man gave this name to his dog.

***

It was already evening, and there were a few people in the café. As usual, the old man was sitting by the window, gazing at the ocean. Time and again he looked at the dog lying quietly at the door and smiled at him. Then he looked back at the ocean.

The door of the café opened with a loud bang and several drunk men came in. They took their seats by the counter and started to talk aloud.

Some time later, one of them stood up and noticed the dog.

“Hey, look at the bastard! I’ve been looking for him for ages, and here he is! He even has a collar!” the man admitted, trying to pool the leash. The dog gnashed his teeth and retreated a little.

“Now gnashing your teeth at me, hah?” – shouted the man and gave the poor dog a strong kick on his side.

The dog groaned and bit the man on his foot.

The events developed dramatically.

“You son of a bitch!” the man screamed, took a small gun out of his pocket and fired two shots at the poor dog.

The dog fell down dead.

The old man stood up slowly, went towards the man, took a large jack-knife out of his pocket and stabbed him twice between his ribs.

* * *

The trial didn’t take long. There were only a few people in the court when the judge asked the accused what the motive of the murder was. There followed a brief but very clear answer:

“He killed my friend!”

After a short pause, he added:

“He killed my last hope!”

Nobody had seen the old man since then. Some people say that having served his time, he went to live in another city. Some others claim that he died in the prison. But nobody is deeply concerned with his fate.

Pakistan

July 2, 2011

A PILGRIM

There was a very long way ahead, and very little food left. He was shuffling along the road with great difficulty. His clothes were ragged. Now and again he leaned on his stick, resting a little. Then he proceeded his way. He drank water out of the creeks he happened to come across.

Villages were scarce on his way. He visited them full of hope, and left them totally disappointed.

He asked for charity at every house, but he had never been shown in. He spent nights outside. It was a rare case when somebody offered him a piece of bread.

He had been traveling for quite a while now, and everywhere he stopped he was met with indifference, and was even laughed at. Now he knew for sure that sympathy – one of the major traits of humanity – had disappeared forever. Having left one of the villages, he stopped in a meadow and meditated for a long time.

He recalled nearly every village he had visited.

Something sank down his stomach.

He was extremely exhausted.

He looked up into the sky. He kept looking for some time, and then he muttered to himself:

“What has happened to these poor creatures, I wonder?”

He kept thinking for a little while, and then added:

“It seems it’s very early yet.”

He sat down.

He kept sitting for a while, and then he suddenly vanished.

Pakistan

July 3, 2011

M HOMECOMING

That day the weather was wretched. It was raining heavily, and the evening gloom was falling rapidly.

A middle-aged man, soaking wet and stooping under the weight of his drenched clothes, was walking slowly along the street. He seemed to be indifferent to the rain since he was walking with a peaceful air on his face.

He attempted to light a cigarette but he couldn’t, his cigarette and matches soaking instantly. He threw them away, put his hands into his pockets, shivered a little, and went on walking.

There was nobody in the street. Only a couple of cars passed by, and he also spotted a stray dog running across the street and round the corner.

The man, Otar by the name, knew where he was heading for, but he was not in a hurry. Perhaps, it was of no use hurrying any more – he had been already wet through anyway.

He stopped at the familiar house.

“I haven’t been here for some twenty or even thirty years,” he thought and rang the bell.

The door was answered by a woman of forty. She couldn’t recognize him at once, but when she did, her face froze in amazement.

“When did you arrive?” she asked in a low voice, having regained her senses.

“Today morning,” Otar answered looking into her eyes.

The rain was pouring down his head, sticking his hair to his face, but the man stood still.

“Come in, you are wet all over,” the woman murmured.

Otar went in, took off his wet, old-fashioned overcoat and put it down at the wall. Only now he felt how very chilled he was. He coughed a couple of times and swept his wet hair back with his hands in embarrassment.

They went into the sitting room. Nothing had changed here, except that everything seemed a bit faded in the course of time. The fire was blazing in the same fireplace, tiled in brown tiles, like some twenty years ago.

Otar wanted to take a seat, but he was ashamed, for he was wet. So he went up to the fireplace and exposed himself to the blazing fire. He felt better now, and he relaxed, letting his thoughts carry him away into the past.

He was deeply attached to this house where he had spent nearly half of his adolescence and youth.

He remembered this room, brightly lit up at birthday parties that used to last till dawn; He remembered the small wine glasses, the high flown toasts so much typical of the young men; the out of place laughter of the girls; the gramophone, and the hard, thick gramophone records; and how they saw the girls home at dawn, walking along the empty streets.

Then, suddenly, it all sank into the mist.

Now he heard the sound of the cargo train wheels, of the shaking about wooden carriages; the human voices speaking foreign languages at different stations; the clicking and groaning of the carriage doors when the huge cans of hot water were brought in – that cherished and blessed hot water that kept their bellies warm for a while, going in gulps down their throats and their stomaches.

He felt drowsy.

He could see the frozen barrack, a glimmering bulb swinging outside, and a cross-cut saw – the only means of keeping oneself a little warm.

They walked along the narrow path cut in the crispy snow, wearing felt boots. They walked to the place of work a bit high-spirited, and came back shuffling, thoroughly exhausted.

He remembered the first tree he had cut down. It fell down with a loud crash. He watched the falling giant, still alive, with his eyes full of frozen tears.

Soon he got used to this horrible scene. With every fallen tree there started a new episode, so much resembling the previous ones abundant in yellowish faces, hollow cheeks, silenced coughing, low and rumbling sound of the lungs, and the typhoid fever that rapidly decreased the number of the imprisoned in the barracks.

There were all sorts of people around: people of different faiths and different cultures: the bearded ones, the ones with Finish knives hidden in their boots, those with close cropped moustaches, and those with round faces, as well as those who got double portions of food and visited the administrative building pretty often.