about to say something. But he says nothing. He knows, as I do, that nothing can help here.
Zuzik grabs Kebab’s arm. "Let me!" he shouts. "I want to try out my pistol!" His childish schoolboy face has reddened, his pistol is trembling in his hand.
"Go to hell!" says Kebab, giving him a shove.
"You have already killed two," Zuzik insists. He demands his rights. Kebab curses, but lowers his rifle. He seems to be convinced that it is fair to allow Zuzik his share. Zuzik raises his little weapon. The Arab looks at him.
"Turn around!" Zuzik shrieks. His voice is thin and hysterical. He is not brave enough to shoot when his victim is looking at him. The Arab doesn’t move. His face is composed in infinite calm. As if he has made his peace with God. Does he despise us? He doesn’t even close his eyes.
Zuzik shoots twice. The Arab falls on his back. He groans gently, his body still moving.
"Damned idiot!" says Kebab and gives Zuzik such a push that he almost lands on the dying man. Kebab raises his rifle, places the muz-zle against the Arab’s head, and shoots. The skull bursts open and something whitish comes out onto the ground. The wounded man stops moving.
Kebab ejects the spent cartridge case and laughs wildly. His expression is that of someone who has successfully performed his duty.
"You see?" he says mockingly to Zuzik. "Your pistol is useless. A rifle is best."