‘Take a look,’ he said. Abdullah set his eye to the spyhole. In the middle of the cell – he couldn’t believe his eyes – was the mighty elder Jur’at, stroking his red beard; next to him was the squat, potbellied Muborak; listening to them were Kosoniy and Professor Zasypkin; while Laziz and the frail Mulla Shibirg’oniy staggered about in the background. In the centre of this devils’ dance was Abdullah’s best friend, the wretched poet Abdulhamid Cho’lpon, whose tear-filled eyes shone through the lenses of his spectacles. Or were these the wax figures Muborak had told him about? Abdullah bit his lips until they bled.

Leave now, Satan; I am afraid.
Go! My sword’s smashed, my shield holed.
Don’t you see? I am lying underneath
A mountain of troubles, crushed and cold?

Oh angel, one last breath, the last of all:
One last look, then may the skies fall!