It’s close to midnight. A journalist sat in a shabby apartment at the outskirts of town. He was going through some documents and photographs, jotting things down in his notebook and staring at his computer all night. He went to bed rather late.

***

It’s about 1 am. A prostitute sat in one of the apartment complexes downtown. She was posting her nudes online, adding descriptions and considering the asking price. She took some phone calls from potential clients and finally went to sleep without sealing any deals. 

***

It’s about 5 am. An imam woke up for the morning prayer. He prayed to Allah for blessings for his children. He prayed for a long time. 

***

It’s about 6 am. A hitman sat at his desk, cleaning his “Saboteur” sniper rifle, after freshening himself up with some cold water. He tucked away a smaller pistol in his jacket, stood up and mumbled: “May God grant me luck”. Then he put the rifle in a violin case and put it over his shoulder. 

***

It’s about 9 am. The building of a newspaper office. The journalist ran into the office, exasperated. 

“Here.” he said and dropped a pile of papers onto the table. 

“Are you alright? Barging in here like a madman. Could’ve at least said hi.” said the chief editor, staring at him.

“I found it, found all the facts. This is a bomb, I swear. It will blow everyone away”.

“Calm down and talk straight. What’s gonna blow?”

“Just take a look at it. I’ll be back”.

The journalist exited the way he entered. The chief editor went through a couple pages. Suddenly, he froze, his eyes as wide as saucers. He got up and walked to the door, then to the window. Finally, he picked up the phone…

***

The same moment. At the top of a five-story building across from the newspaper office the hitman was setting up his rifle. He extended the small shade that shielded the rifle’s scope from the morning sun. The journalist ran out the door with his ruffled hair, the edges of his jacket flapping in the wind. The hitman felt a slight gust of wind that touched him on the back of his neck. He took a slow deep breath and let it out. He pinned the rifle’s stock against his shoulder and put his finger on the trigger. He waited until the journalist crossed the street and pulled the trigger. Bull’s-eye…

***

It’s around noon. A crowd has gathered around the newspaper office, sounds of car horns filled the air…

***

It’s about 3 pm. The journalist’s shabby apartment. People are going in and out. His mother and wife are crying in a corner. People are approaching them and expressing their condolences. His father is pale and motionless. There is a hint of a tear on his eyelashes. The chief editor is talking to the imam closer to the entrance. 

***

It’s around 8 pm. The chief editor stands in the courtyard, talking to someone on the phone. 

“Thank God it ended up in my hands, boss. You can calm down. Everything is fine now. Although, we will check everything, we have our men among the cops, they’ll get to it. I think nobody else knows… I’ll make sure…”

He heads back home.

***

It is around 10 pm. The chief editor calls the imam closer.

“Thank you for coming, brother. It’s a great loss. He was so young and so promising. Here is a small compensation for your services. I will not call anyone else. The 7-day and 40-day services are on you”. He hands the imam 200 dollars. 

The imam says a little prayer. He says that he will come earlier tomorrow and assist the family. He goes outside and gently touches the dollar bills in his pocket. He’s now at the edge of the town. Cars are passing by. Sounds of crickets add to the noise. The imam looks at the sky and says, “Thank you, Lord”. The moon is full and bright. The summer sky is filled with bright stars. He smiles just ever so slightly. 

***

It’s close to midnight. A nice suite in a lofty hotel. A quiet ambient melody is playing in the room. The hitman is lying on the large bed with his hands behind his head. The prostitute, whose naked body is only half covered with a blanket is on her phone. Then she looks at the man beside her. 

“What kind of work do you do?”

“Me?” he says, a little pensive, “Well, I am in the service industry…”

“Seriously? You seem loaded”.

“I kill people” he says and examines her carefully.

“Cool. Makes sense. That’s why you’re loaded” she says nonchalantly. There are no further questions. Suddenly, the young woman laughs.

“It’s funny. Just yesterday I was very low on cash, and today I met you. My rent is due tomorrow. I spend all my money as soon as I get it, but then God always pulls me through. All of a sudden, I get more money. I am probably relying on God a bit too much. But look… Here we are”.

The hitman laughs at this too.

“Yeah, God helped me too today…”

translated from Kazakh by Dulat Ilyasov