All this night missiles and shells of bombardment were stabbing and slashing and crashing the town's organism like that machine-executioner from Kafka's story.
But in the daytime there was not a single explosion. A miracle.
In the morning I was sent with breads to Orliana's.
Their little Anna speaks astoundingly much.
Shame on Ahshaut, who, being only a fortnight younger, can't say more than "pa", "ma", "ba", and when asked what
a missile contrivance for destroying hailstorm clouds which was easily converted into artillery weapon in the initial stages of the Karabakh war 1991-1994. do he answers, "boom!"
Valyo's father was also on a visit there.
He used to have a retired celebrity's looks, but now the image is spoiled by his uncontrollably trembling hands.
He didn't have this tremor before.
Valyo, with zealously bulging sinew strings on his throat, harped on—over and over again—about ugly customs and low morale of some inmates in their underground.
Frankly, he saw no future in this country and one of these days (with a giggle) would move to Berlin, Germany.
On my way back, I bought two-kilos of apples at the self-established bazaar by the Lower Circle where I also had a handshake and small talk with Goorgan.
He was seeking some fuel for his heavy truck to evacuate his family to their native village.
Carina visited our place with her children and lots of presents. Three yellow balloons lasted for a whole half an hour.
When they left and Sahtik took Ahshaut to the Underground for his day nap.
The mother-in-law went to Orliana's.
Roozahna and her girl-friend Anichka, a seven-year-old heiress to the landlordhood, and me stayed at our place.
We whiled the time away as mannerly and urbanely as you only may wish.
No talking off no one's head. No trouble at all.
At somewhat past three p.m., Sahtik returned and sent me to awaken and bring Ahshaut from Underground.
Walking back hand-in-hand with the kid, I was sissily chewing over whether that bitty hand of his would chance to grow and become a man's one.
Yoga. Bathing myself in the tub.
It's ten in the evening. I'm home alone.
The machine-gun shooting up there lately acquired a tinge of a mere domestic thing like a ticking clock.
It's wet and chilly outdoors, inhumanely cold indoors.
Good night, the world of warring Maya.