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I stared at thenightof the city
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this country over the past
fifteen years – assigned the
rebuilding of the village to
the three men, who had
nothing else to live for but
memories.
They were to rebuild the
village. It did not matter
how many years it took
them. It didnotmatter how
many houses they built. It
did not matter how they
designed the buildings,
the walls or the windows.
All that mattered was that
they kept on working.
Once a month, a truckload
of stone, cement and other
construction
materials
was unloaded on the
asphalt road at the foot of
the cold, foggy mountain,
and the three men were
obliged to transport the
materials on three old
mules to somewhere up
near the summit, and set
to work there. They had to
work day and night. Three
men with dishevelled
beards, covered in grime.
The day the new and
unusual man arrived in
the village, he was first
received by the Real
Magellan, whose given
name was Zuhdi Shazaman
– a man with long, grey
hair and a long beard. If
Christ had not died very
young, but had gone on
to gain in years, he might
have acquired a similar
look. Although Shazaman
was old, he was solid and
powerful, one of those
men who could charm
women more in his old age
than in youth. He had been
his city’s finest bricklayer.
He considered the guest
with suspicion, and then
led him to his friends. This
was the beginning of the
curious game the cunning
and mischievous man had
to play. He had to get inside
the souls of the three men,