At dawn, just before daybreak, I notice her start behaving strangely — she shrinks away from me and huddles in the corner. Her face is frozen in a mask of fear, as if someone is pointing a pistol at her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Do you hear it?”
“What?”
“The cutting.”
Yes, I can hear a whining, rasping sound.
“That’s the quarry…”
“What?”
“The quarry. They’re cutting stone for building.”
“Is it far away?”
“Yes… don’t take any notice.”
But she can’t settle down for a long time.
It bothers me badly for a while too — it makes a vile sound when metal bites into stone. A sickening squealing, with absolutely no respite. Like throats being cut one after another…
*
“Look at the way she’s looking at you!” Seidzade says with a smile. It’s his first smile of the evening (literary workers are slo
