“Alisher didn’t like that,” Timur observed. “Is he still in Moscow?”

I nodded, delighted by this opportune change of subject. “Yes. He’s in our Watch.”

“How is he getting on?” Nodir asked politely. “We heard he’s already fourth-level.”

“Practically third,” I said. “But he can tell you himself. He flew down with me, but he decided to visit some friends first.”

The members of the Watch were clearly not pleased by this news. Timur and Nodir both looked not exactly annoyed, but uncomfortable. Valentina Ilinichna shook her head.

“Have I said something to upset you?” I asked. The bottle we had drunk together encouraged me to speak frankly. “Do explain to me what the problem is. Why do you feel this way about Alisher? Is it because his father was a devona?”

The members of the Watch exchanged glances.

“It’s not a question of who his father was,” Valentina Ilinichna said at last. “Alisher is a good boy. But he’s…very categorical.”

“Really?”

“Perhaps he has changed in Moscow,” Timur suggested, “but Alisher always wanted to fight. He was born in the wrong time.”

I thought about that. Of course, in our Watch, Alisher had always preferred to work on the streets. Patrols, confrontations, arrests-there wasn’t much that happened without him being involved…

“Well…that’s a bit more natural in Moscow,” I said. “It’s a big city, life is more stressful. But Alisher misses his homeland a lot.”

“But we’re glad Alisher’s here, of course we are!” Valentina Ilinichna said, changing her tune. “It’s been such a long time since we saw him. Hasn’t it, boys?”

The “boys” agreed with feigned enthusiasm. Even Murat went so far as to declare from the kitchen that he had really missed Alisher.

“Will Afandi be here soon?” I asked, turning the conversation away from an awkward subject.

“Yes, indeed,” said Valentina Ilinichna, concerned. “It’s after two already…”

“He’s been here for a long time,” Murat commented from the kitchen again. “He’s wandering around the yard with a broom. I can see him through the window. He probably decided we’d ask him to cook the pilaf…”

Nodir walked across quickly to the door and called out, “Afandi, what are you doing?”

“Sweeping the yard,” the fifth member of the Samarkand Watch replied with a dignified air. To judge from his voice, not only had he been born three hundred years earlier, his body was far from young too.

Nodir turned back to us and shrugged apologetically. He called again, “Afandi, come in, we have a guest!”

“I know we have a guest. That’s why I’m sweeping!”

“Afandi, the guest is already in the house. Why are you cleaning outside?”

“Eh, Nodir! Don’t you teach me how to receive guests! When the guest is still outside, everybody cleans and tidies the house. But if the guest is in the house, you have to clean outside!”

“Have it your own way, Afandi.” Nodir laughed. “You know best, of course. But meanwhile we’re going to eat grapes and drink cognac.”

“Wait, Nodir!” Afandi replied agitatedly. “It would be disrespectful to the guest not to dine at the same table with him!”

A moment later Afandi was standing in the doorway. He looked absolutely ridiculous: a pair of sneakers with the laces unfastened on his feet, a pair of blue jeans held up with a Soviet Army belt, and a white nylon shirt with big, broad buttons. Nylon is a durable material. The shirt was probably twenty or thirty years old. Afandi himself was a clean-shaven old man (the scraps of newspaper stuck to the cuts on his chin suggested that this cost him a serious effort) with a balding head, appearing to be about sixty years old. He cast an approving glance at the table, leaned his broom against the doorpost, and skipped briskly across to me.

“Hello, respected guest. May your Power increase like the fervor of a man undressing a woman! May it rise to the second level and even the first!”

“Afandi, our guest is a Higher Magician,” Valentina Ilinichna said. “Why do you wish him the second level?”

“Quiet, woman!” said Afandi, letting go of my hand and taking a seat at the table. “Do you not see how quickly my wish has come true and even been exceeded?”

The members of the Watch laughed, but without the slightest malice. Afandi-I scanned his aura and discovered that the old man was on the very lowest level of Power-was regarded as the jester of the Samarkand Watch. But he was a well-loved jester; they would forgive him any foolish nonsense and never let him come to any harm.

“Thank you for the kind words, Father,” I said. “Your wishes really do come true with remarkable speed.”

The old man nodded as he threw half a peach into his mouth with evident enthusiasm. His teeth were excellent-he might not take much care of his overall appearance, but he obviously attached great importance to that particular part of his body.

“They’re all young whippersnappers here,” he muttered. “I’m sure they haven’t even welcomed you properly. What’s your name, dear man?”

“Anton.”

“My name’s Afandi. That means a sage,” said the old man, looking around sternly at the other members of the Watch. “If it weren’t for my wisdom, the powers of Darkness-may they wither in agony and burn in hell-would long ago have drunk their sweet little brains and chewed up their big stringy livers!”

Nodir and Timur chortled.

“I understand why our livers are stringy,” said Nodir, pouring the cognac. “But why are our brains sweet?”

“Because wisdom is bitter, but foolishness and ignorance are sweet!” Afandi declared, washing his peach down with a glass of cognac. “Hey! Hey, you fool, what do you think you’re doing?”

“What?” said Timur, who was about to follow his cognac with a few grapes. He looked at Afandi quizzically.

“You can’t follow cognac with grapes!”

“Why?”

“It’s the same thing as boiling a kid in its mother’s milk!”

“Afandi, only Jews don’t boil young goat meat in milk!”

“Do you?”

“No,” said Timur, abashed. “Why use milk?”

“Then don’t follow cognac with grapes!”

“Afandi, I have only known you for three minutes, but I have already tasted so much wisdom that I shall be digesting it for an entire month,” I put in, to attract the old man’s attention. “The wise Gesar sent me to Samarkand. He asked me to find his old friend, who once went by the name of Rustam. Do you happen to know Rustam?”

“Of course I do,” Afandi said with a nod. “But who’s Gesar?”

“Afandi!” Valentina Ilinichna exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. “You must have heard of the Great Gesar!”

“Gesar,” the old man mused. “Gesar, Gesar…Wasn’t he the Light Magician who worked as a night-soil man in Binkent?”

“Afandi! How can you confuse the Great Gesar with some night-soil man?” Valentina Ilinichna was shocked.

“Ah, Gesar!” said Afandi, nodding. “Yes, yes, yes! At Oldjibai, the vanquisher of Soton, Lubson, and Gubkar. Who doesn’t know old man Gesar?”

“But who knows old man Rustam?” I butted in again, before Afandi could start reciting Gesar’s great and glorious deeds.

“I do,” Afandi declared proudly.

“Please, don’t exaggerate, Afandi,” Timur said. “Our guest really needs to meet Rustam.”

“That’s not easy,” said Afandi, suddenly shedding all his buffoonery. “Rustam has cut himself off from people. He was seen in Samarkand ten years ago, but since then no one has spoken to Rustam, no one…”

“How do you know about Rustam, Afandi?” I couldn’t resist asking. If it wasn’t for what my daughter had said, I would have believed the old man was simply stringing me along.

“It was a long time ago,” Afandi said with a sigh. “In Samarkand there was an old man, a complete fool, just like these young whippersnappers. One day he was walking through the town, complaining that he didn’t have anything to eat. And suddenly a mighty hero, a batyr, with eyes that glowed and a high, wise forehead, came out to meet him. He looked at the old man and said, ‘Granddad, why are you so sad? Do you really not know the power that is concealed within you? You are a Boshkacha! An Other!’ The batyr touched the old man with his hand, and the old man acquired power and wisdom. And the batyr said, ‘Know that the Great Rustam himself has been your teacher.’ That was what happened two hundred and fifty years ago!”