Читать книгу: «The Carrot Stories. Issue 2. The Golden Hen of Poets or Literary Adventures in Central Asia»

© Ianis Zhemanov, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0067-7558-9 (т. 2)

ISBN 978-5-0067-7555-8

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Chapter I. The Winner

The final lecture on modern literature was coming to an end. All the students knew that it was the time for Dr. Velomudrov (the Russian professor from Saint Petersburg) to announce the results of the poetry competition which he always held among the postgraduates.

“That is all,” the professor said and breathed. “Now you know everything about modern literature. The next period is the future. Who knows, perhaps, many years hence, some of you will be included on the list of world-famous writers.”

After these words, the professor opened his leather portfolio and took out a sheet of paper. “As you’ve probably guessed,” he said, “I left a little time to announce the best poet of your University. So… This competition was special. To begin with, this is the last time it will be held. I’m retiring. This was my final lecture and my last working day.”

Cheers rang out. In this way, the students of Toronto University were thanking their teacher, who had instilled in them a love for literature and writing.

Dr. Velomudrov bowed in gratitude and continued. “Secondly, I was very surprised to find a real gem. I mean, among you there’s a person whose poems outshine all others.”

This sounded very intriguing. The postgraduates began looking around, trying to figure out who this genius might be.

“The winner is… Erwin Aprik!” announced Dr. Velomudrov as if he were a referee at a boxing match. “My congratulations! I shall send your works to ‘The National Literary Almanac.’ They are worthy of being published there.”

Cheers rang out again. The winner stood up and smiled bashfully. Erwin Aprik was a promising writer whose main dream was to develop his original style in poetry and prose.

“Moreover,” continued the professor, “I shall send Erwin’s poems to the Committee of the Intergalactic Poetry Contest which will be held in Uzbekistan. This is a very serious challenge. I would really like Erwin to take part in this contest. This time the jury will be headed by Doran Traperton, the mayor of Hensburg.”

“It’s an honor for me to participate in this contest,” responded the postgraduate. “However, I have absolutely no poems dealing with either the hen philosophy or the hen world.”

“That’s not a problem,” said Dr. Velomudrov. “You have one week to write such a poem – not less than thirty lines. The deadline for authors is July 15.”

Erwin accepted the challenge. When the lecture was over and all the students had left the auditorium, Erwin came up to the professor.

“I have no ideas,” confessed the student. “They’ve dried up. Without originality, my chances of winning are nill.”

The professor thought for a moment. Like every intellectual, he knew the hen philosophy well. One of its principles stated that all ideas can be divided into two types – dead and alive. Living ideas, generated from super galaxies and existing in the hearts of life, enter our world to evaluate. Dead ones represent products of our consciousness (intellectual activity); therefore, they are unable to evaluate. No doubt, Erwin meant the first type.

“Listen,” Dr. Velomudrov said at last. “As you know, poetic ideas are contained in the red heart. A lot of hen-power is required to attract even one such idea. This is not an option for us.”

“Are there any others?” asked Erwin.

“Yes,” nodded Dr. Velomudrov. “One can gain admission into the red heart.”

“How?” asked Erwin. “Has anyone ever done it?”

“Some have,” replied the professor. “And, perhaps, you’re one of them. Each flash of inspiration means that you’ve recently been in one of the six hearts of life.”

Confusion was written all over Erwin’s face. The young poet had always thought that living creative ideas came by themselves; however, the professor’s words left him completely baffled.

“It’s possible to visit the hearts only at nights, while sleeping,” explained Dr. Velomudrov, as if he guessed what Erwin was thinking. “As a rule, people remember neither the trip to the heart nor the ideas they encounter there. Later, people suddenly recall these ideas, and that’s why it looks like inspiration.”

“Why is it possible for only certain people to gain admission?” asked the young man.

“One must merit it,” the professor replied. “In my view, this isn’t easy.”

“How can I do it?” asked Erwin in great excitement.

“I don’t know,” returned Dr. Velomudrov. “As for me,

I’ve never been in these hearts.”

After these words, there was a pause. It seemed that both the professor and the student were thinking about how to get admission into the red heart.

“When I was your age,” said Dr. Velomudrov, finally breaking the silence, “I traveled around Central Asia. Back then, I wanted to become a writer. The nature and culture of this region seemed inspiring to me. Also, I suffered from a terrible illness – bronchial asthma.”

“And what was the result of your travels?” asked Erwin.

“The illness abated when my train arrived in Samarkand. Believe me, Central Asia is a special place. It has given us many great poets. I found both healing and inspiration there.”

The young poet realized that Dr. Velomudrov was gently leading him to the thought of visiting Central Asia. Erwin closed his eyes and imagined riding a camel.

“Of course,” added the professor, “I didn’t gain admission into the heart of theoretical ideas, but I found the power to be myself. It helped me to understand that studying literature was more interesting for me than writing.”

“Should I go to Central Asia?” asked Erwin. “What will I do there?”

The professor’s answer surprised the young poet.

“First of all, you should spend some time in the Pamir Mountains,” said Dr. Velomudrov. “This will bring you piece of mind and some new impressions. Give my words serious thought.”

Erwin didn’t univocally say if he wanted to go to Central Asia; however, the very next day he boarded Hen Air, Flight 723K, Ottawa – Dushanbe.

When the plane took off, the young poet recalled one interesting fact regarding his journey and recent conversation with the professor: many years ago, while a student in elementary school, Erwin found an old thin book written in Persian at home.

“What’s this?” he asked his mother.

“Your grandfather brought this book back from a geological expedition,” explained the woman. “None of us knows Persian, so I can’t say what it’s about. All I know is that now your granddad hopes to get good money for it.”

Leafing through the book, little Erwin closed it. Naturally, a serious book written in a foreign language didn’t attract the child’s interest. The boy quickly forgot about the find, and a few weeks later it was sold at auction.¹

“Where’s this book now?” wondered Erwin. “Who bought it?”

The young man gazed around the cabin as if the answers were written somewhere on its surface. However, the only writing he managed to find was the famous proverb “Only mountains can be better than mountains”. These words were running across the screen installed straight above the door.

“No doubt,” Erwin said to himself. It was getting cold, and the young man wrapped the plaid around himself. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. Hen Air planes were notable for their comfortable seats, which was very important during long flights.

***

What do salespeople do when there aren’t any customers in a shop? Usually, they read. Clara Atkins, the salesgirl at a shoe store, was no exception. That July evening, she opened the latest issue of “Celebrity Life”. The article titles were promising. Which one to choose?

Unfortunately, Clara had no time to arrive at a decision. The sound of heavy steps made her look up. A tall long-haired man between 40—45 years of age approached the counter. He was dressed in a long red leather cloak, buttoned all the way up. The girl felt that a sepulchral chill fill the store space.

“What’s this?” the stranger asked, placing a high-heeled sandal on the counter. “Do the women of your planet have six toes?”

“No… five,” replied Clara, turning pale. “It’s just a heel… a decoration… fashion.”

“Fashion?” grinned the man. “In my galaxy, women don’t know what heels are.”

Then the stranger looked at Clara’s hands.

“What’s wrong with your nails?” asked the stranger. “They’re purple. You have a disease?”

“No, no, no,” the girl replied in confusion. “We cover our nails with polish. It can be of different colors. That is…”

“That is fashion,” the man completed her phrase.

“Who are you?” asked Clara. “Where are you from? You make me nervous.”

“No need to fear,” the stranger assured her. “I’m looking for Erwin Aprik the poet. You know him, don’t you?”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Clara replied. “Nothing personal, I can’t give you his address.”

“There’s no need,” said the stranger. “I don’t have to see him in person. Just give him this.”

Clara was surprised to see a green notebook (the same type Erwin had taken with him). She wondered how the stranger had managed to get it.

“It contains poems written by Erwin,” explained the man.

The girl opened the notebook and nearly fainted. Its pages were absolutely blank – not a single word anywhere.

“The poems will appear only when their author takes the notebook,” explained the stranger. “I know it sounds unbelievable, but you must trust me.”

After these words, Clara was completely dumbfounded.

“The hen philosophy teaches us to receive mystery as a common thing,” added the man. “Mystery and trust are our main principles.”

“Yesterday Erwin left for Central Asia,” Clara said at last. “He wants to visit Tajikistan and Uzbekistan.”

“That’s not a problem,” replied the man. “This notebook will find him on its own.”

The stranger looked at the high-heeled sandal on the counter.

“Thirty-seven dollars,” said the girl. Clara understood what he wanted to ask.

“Our women are sure to appreciate it,” said the stranger. He purchased the item and left the store.

As the stranger walked along the street, all the passers-by turned around and gazed at him in wonder: a man carrying a high-heeled sandal is a very rare sight, indeed.