Ali and Nino

by Kurban Said

  Getting into the hot bath was like stepping into a brew made of rotten eggs. The cousins’ bodies were wet and glistening. I rubbed a hand on my breast, and the sulphur soaked into my skin. I thought of all the warriors and victors who had conquered this town and immersed themselves in this spring: Chwaresmir Dshellalleddin, Timur the Lame, Dshagatai, the son of Ghengis Khan. They had been drunk and heavy with the blood they had shed. Then they had stepped into the sulphur spring to become light and agile again.

  ‘Enough, Ali Khan, get out.’ The cousin’s voice finished my dreams of bathing warriors. I crept out of my hole, went into the adjoining room and fell listless on the stone bench. ‘Mekisse!’ Sandro cried.

  The man who had met us, who turned out to be the masseur, came in, wearing only his turban. I was made to lie on my stomach. With his naked feet he jumped on my back, and trampled on me, light as a dancer on a carpet. Then his fingers tore into my flesh as if they were sharp hooks. He disjointed my arms, and I heard my bones crack. My cousins were standing around, giving advice: ‘Turn his arms out once more, Mekisse, he’s very ill.’

  ‘Jump on his back once more, like this, and now pinch his left side.’

  I suppose it should have hurt very much, but I did not feel any pain. I was just lying there, covered with white soapy foam, relaxed under Mekisse’s hard elastic blows, and the only thing I felt was that all my muscles were becoming wonderfully loose and relaxed.

  ‘Enough,’ said Mekisse, and again fell into the stance of a prophet out of this world. I got up. My whole body ached. I ran into the next room and dived into the icy cold sulphur flood of the second bath. For a moment my breath stopped. But my limbs became elastic once more, filled with new life.

  I came back, swathed in a white sheet. The cousins and Mekisse looked at me expectantly. ‘Hunger,’ I said with great dignity, and sat down crosslegged on one of the benches.

  ‘He’s all right!’ roared the cousins, ‘get a watermelon, cheese, vegetables, wine—quick!’

  We lay down in the anteroom and had a banquet. I forgot that I had ever been weak or tired. The taste of sulphur was chased away by the red fragrant flesh of the ice-cold water-melon. The cousins sipped their white Napareuli wine. ‘Well, there you are,’ said Dodiko, but did not finish his sentence, for this really meant everything: his pride of the native sulphur bath, pity for the foreigner, who broke down under Georgian hospitality, and the friendly cousinly assurance that he, Dodiko understood and excused his Mohammedan cousin’s weakness. Our circle expanded. Neighbours came, naked, carrying wine bottles. Princes, and their creditors, hangers-on, servants, sages, poets, and estate owners from the mountains sat peacefully together, a gay picture of Georgian equality. It was not a bath any more, it was a club, a coffee house or just a meeting of happy naked people, their eyes carefree and laughing. But here and there I heard serious words, filled with dark foreboding. ‘The Osman is coming,’ said a man with small eyes. ‘The Grand Duke will take Stamboul. I have heard that a German general has built a cannon there. When that goes off it will hit exactly the Zion’s Dome in Tiflis.’

  ‘You are wrong, Prince,’ said a man with a face like a pumpkin. ‘This cannon has not been built yet, only the plans exist. But even when it is finished, it cannot hit Tiflis. All the maps the Germans have are wrong. Russians have drawn them, even before the war. You understand? Russian maps—how can they possibly be correct?’ In the corner somebody sighed. I turned and saw a white beard and a long hooked nose.

  ‘Poor Georgia,’ sighed the beard. ‘We are between the two claws of a pair of red-hot tongs. If the Germans win—it’s the end of the land of Tamar. If the Russians win—what then? The pale Czar has all he wants, but the fingers of the Grand Duke are gripping our throat. Even now our sons are dying in battles, the best of the best. What is left will be strangled, either by the Osman, the Grand Duke or any other enemy, it could even be a machine, or an American. It seems impossible to understand—our flame of war, and how it suddenly turned to ashes. This is the end of the Land of Tamar. Just look: our warriors are small and thin, the harvest is poor, the wine is sour.’ The bearded one fell silent, wheezing softly. No one said a word. Suddenly an anxious subdued voice:

  ‘They have killed the noble Bagration. He married one of the Czar’s nieces, and the Russians never forgave him for that. The Czar himself ordered him to join the Erivan Regiment, out in the front lines. Bagration fought like a lion, and fell, pierced by eighteen bullets.’

  The cousins sat, quietly sipping their wine. I stared at the floor. Bagration, I thought, the oldest noble family in Christendom. The bearded one is right. Georgia is being squeezed to death between the two claws of a red-hot pair of tongs. Another voice spoke up: ‘He left a son, Teymouras Bagration, the true King. Someone is keeping him safe.’

  Silence again. Mekisse’s skeletal form was still standing near the door, in the same pose of a dedicated prophet. Then Dodiko broke the spell. He stretched himself and yawned happily: ‘It is beautiful,’ he said, ‘this our country. The sulphur and the town, the war and Kachetian wine. Look at the Alasan flowing across the plain! It is wonderful to be a Georgian, even if Georgia perishes. You sound hopeless. But has it ever been otherwise in the Land of Tamar? And yet our rivers run, our vine grows, our people dance. It is a fair country, this our Georgia. And so it will remain, for all its hopelessness.’ He stood up, young and slender, his eyes dancing, his skin like velvet, the descendant of singers and heroes. The bearded one in the corner smiled delightedly: ‘By God, as long as we have young people like that …’

  Vamech leaned across to me: ‘Ali Khan, don’t forget—today you are the guest of the Dshakelis in Kadshory.’ We rose, dressed, and went out. The coachman cracked his whip, and Vamech said: ‘The Dshakelis are descendants of the ancient noble family of …’ Of course! I laughed, gay and happy again.

  15

  Nino and I were sitting in the Café Mephisto in Golovinsky Street, looking out at Mount David with its big monastery. The cousins had allowed us one day of rest. I knew what Nino was thinking. Up there, on Mount David, was the grave we had visited. There lies Alexander Griboyedov, poet and Minister of the Czar. The inscription on his gravestone reads:

  Your works will never be forgotten, but why must your Nino’s love survive you?

  Her name was Nino Tshavtshavadse, and she was sixteen years old when the Minister and poet took her for his wife. Nino Tshavtshavadse—the great aunt of Nino who was sitting next to me. She was seventeen years old when the Teheran mob surrounded the Russian Minister’s house. ‘Ya Ali Salavat, o Ali be praised!’ the shout went up. The Minister had only his short sword and a pistol. A smith from Sülly-Sultan Street raised his hammer and crushed the Minister’s breast. Days later flesh torn from a human body was still found in the streets—and a head dogs had savaged. That was all that was left of Alexander Griboyedov, poet and Minister of the Czar. Feth Ali Shah, the Kadjar, was satisfied, and Abbas Mirza, the Crown Prince, was very happy. Meshi Aga, a fanatical wise old man, who amongst others had instigated the out-break, received a big reward, and a Shirvanshir, my great uncle, was given an estate in Giljan.

  All that was a hundred years ago. And there we were, sitting on the terrace of the Café Mephisto: I, a Shirvanshir, and she, Nino, Griboyedov’s great-niece. ‘We ought to be blood enemies, Nino,’ I nodded towards the mountain. ‘Will you put up a gravestone for me as beautiful as the one up there?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Nino, ‘it depends on how you behave during your life.’ She finished her coffee. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go for a walk.’

  I rose. Nino loved this town as a child loves its mother. We walked up Golovinsky Street to the alleys of the Old Town. Nino stopped in front of the ancient Zion’s Dome. We went into the dark damp room. High upon the altar stood a cross, made from the vine St. Nino had brought when she came from the West to announce to the Georgians the Saviour of the World had arrived. Nino knelt down, crossed herself and looked up to the picture
of her guardian saint. She whispered: ‘Holy Nino, forgive me.’ By the light shining through the church windows I saw tears in her eyes.

  ‘Come out,’ I said. Obediently she rose and followed me. Silently we walked down the street. At last I said: ‘What did you ask the Holy Nino to forgive you?’

  ‘You, Ali Khan.’

  She sounded sad and tired. Walking through the streets of Tiflis with Nino was a bad thing to do.

  ‘Why me?’ We had arrived at the Maidan. Georgians were sitting in the coffee houses, or in the middle of the street. Someone somewhere was playing the zurna, and far below the river Kura was rushing in its narrow bed. Nino’s eyes had a faraway look, as if she was searching for her identity.

  ‘You,’ she repeated, ‘and all that has been.’

  I began to understand, but still I asked: ‘What?’ Nino stopped. Over there, on the other side of the square rose the Cathedral Kashveti, built of stones as white and soft and tender as a virgin. Nino said:

  ‘Walk through Tiflis. Do you see women wearing the veil? No. Do you feel the air of Asia? No. It is a different world from yours. The streets are broad, the souls are straight. I feel very wise when I’m in Tiflis, Ali Khan. No bigoted fools like Seyd Mustafa are here, and no grim scowlers, like Mehmed Haidar. Life is easy and gay here.’

  ‘But this country is held between the two claws of a hot pair of tongs, Nino.’

  ‘That’s just why,’ she was stepping lightly over the cobbled stones again, ‘that’s just it. Seven times Timur the Lame destroyed Tiflis. Turks, Persians, Arabs and Mongols have overrun the country. We stayed. They laid waste in Georgia, raped it, murdered it, but never really possessed it. St. Nino came from the West, carrying her vine, and it is to the West we belong. We are no Asiatics. We are the furthest eastern country of Europe. Surely you can feel that yourself?’ She walked on quickly, her childish brow furrowed. ‘Just because we have defied Timur, and Ghengis, Shah Abbas, Shah Tahmasp and Shah Ismail, just because of that it is that I exist, I, your Nino. And now you come along, without a sword, without trampling elephants, without warriors, and yet you are the heir of the blood-covered Shahs. My daughters will wear the veil, and when Iran’s sword is sharpened again my sons and grandsons will destroy Tiflis for the hundredth time. Oh Ali Khan, we should belong to the world of the West.’

  I took her hand. ‘What do you want me to do, Nino?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’m very stupid, Ali Khan. I want you to love wide streets and green woods, I want you to understand more about love, and not to cling to the crumbling wall of an Asiatic town. I am so afraid that in ten years’ time you will be pious and sly, sitting there in Giljan, and that one morning you will wake up and say: “Nino, you are only an acre.” Tell me: what do you love me for?’

  Tiflis was making Nino all confused, she seemed intoxicated by the damp air around the Kura river.

  ‘What do I love you for, Nino? For all of you, your voice, your fragrance, the way you walk. What more do you want? It’s just you I love. Surely love is the same in Georgia as in Iran. Here, on this spot, a thousand years ago, your Rustaveli was singing of his love to Queen Tamar. And the songs of this greatest of poets are exactly like Persian rubaiyats. Georgia is nothing without Rustaveli, and Rustaveli is nothing without Persia.’

  ‘Here, on this spot,’ said Nino thoughtfully. ‘But maybe Sayat Nova stood here as well, the great poet who sang of Georgian love, and whom the Shah had beheaded for it.’

  There was not much I could say to my Nino today. She was saying good-bye to her homeland, feeling and showing her love for it more deeply than ever. She sighed: ‘You love my eyes, my nose, my hair—all that, Ali Khan. But haven’t you forgotten something: do you love my soul?’

  ‘Yes, I love your soul too,’ I said tiredly.

  It was strange: when Seyd Mustafa said women have no soul I laughed. But when Nino wanted me to discover her soul I felt annoyed. What kind of thing is that, a woman’s soul? She should be content that the man does not want to understand the bottomless well of her soul. ‘And what do you love me for, Nino?’

  Suddenly she started to cry, there, in the middle of the street. Big tears were rolling down her cheeks, making her look like a little girl: ‘Forgive me, Ali Khan. I love you, just simply you, as you are. But I’m afraid of your world. I’m mad, Ali Khan. Here I am, standing on the street with you, my betrothed, behaving as if all Ghengis Khan’s wars were your fault. Forgive your Nino. It is stupid of me to make you responsible for every Mohammedan who ever killed a Georgian. I’ll never do it again. But you see: I, your Nino, I too am a tiny piece of this Europe that you hate, and here in Tiflis I feel it more than ever. I love you, and you love me. But I love woods and meadows, and you love hills and stones and sand. And that’s why I am afraid of you, of your love and your world.’

  ‘Well?’ I asked, bewildered. I could not understand what she was trying to say.

  ‘Well?’ she dried her eyes, smiling again, turning her head to the side. ‘Well? In three months time we’ll be married, what more do you want?’ Nino can laugh and cry, love and hate, all in one breath. She forgave me all Ghengis Khan’s campaigns, and she loved me again. Taking my hand she dragged me across the Veri-Bridge to the labyrinth of the bazaar. It was a symbolic plea for forgiveness. The bazaar is the only oriental spot on the European robe of Tiflis. Fat carpet sellers, Armenians and Persians, display here the many-coloured splendour of Iran’s treasures. Brass plates, wise inscriptions etched on their yellow surfaces, shone in the semi-darkness. A Kurdish girl, with light grey eyes was telling fortunes, and seemed astonished at her own knowledge. At every door leading to a wine house or a café little clusters of Tiflis’ numerous idlers and loafers congregated, earnestly discussing anything and everything under the sun. This town with its eighty different peoples, each with their own language, has its own pungent smell, and we breathed it in the narrow lanes. Nino’s sadness disappeared in the bazaar’s many-coloured pell-mell. Armenian peddlers, Kurdish fortune-tellers, Persian cooks, Ossetian priests, Russians, Arabs, Ingushs, Indians: all the peoples of Asia meet in the bazaar of Tiflis. There is an uproar in one of the booths. The merchants are standing in a circle: an Assyrian is quarrelling with a Jew. We just hear: ‘When my ancestors were taking your ancestors as prisoners to Babylon …’ The crowd is hooting with laughter. And Nino laughs too—at the Jew, at the Assyrian, at the bazaar, at the tears she had shed. We walk on. Just a few more steps, and we have completed the circle. Again we stand in front of the Café Mephisto in Golovinsky Street. ‘Shall we go in again?’ I ask, but I do not really know what I want to do.

  ‘No. Let’s go up to the Monastery of St. David, to celebrate our reconciliation.’ We turned into the side streets, that led to the funicular railway. The little red car started to crawl slowly up the Mountain of David. The town sank away, and Nino told me the story of how the famous monastery was founded: ‘Many many years ago St. David lived on this mountain. And down there in the town lived a Princess who sinfully loved a Prince. She became pregnant, but the Prince left her, and when her furious father asked for the name of the seducer she was afraid to tell him, and accused St. David. Full of wrath the King ordered the holy man to be brought to his palace. He called for his daughter, and she repeated her accusation. But the saint touched her body with his wand, and a miracle occurred. The voice of the child in her body was heard, naming the real culprit. Then the holy man raised his hands in prayer, and the Princess gave birth to a stone. The stone is still here, and from it springs the Fountain of St. David. If a woman longs for a child she bathes in the holy fountain.’ Thoughtfully she added: ‘Isn’t it a good thing that St. David is dead, and nobody knows where his wand is, Ali Khan?’ We had arrived at the monastery.

  ‘Do you want to go to the fountain, Nino?’

  ‘No—I think I’d rather wait for another year.’ We were standing at the wall that encircled the monastery and looked down on the town. The Kura valley was filled with a blue mist. From th
e sea of rooftops church cupolas loomed up like lonely islands. Eastwards and westwards lay long stretches of pleasure garden: the playgrounds of Tiflis’ gay set. The dark castle of Mtech rose in the distance—once the seat of Georgian kings, now one of the Russian Empire’s prisons for Caucasians who dared to think about politics. Nino turned away. It was difficult for her to combine her loyalty to the Czar with the view of the famous—or infamous—place of torture and death.

  ‘Are any of your cousins there in Mtech, Nino?’

  ‘No, but you should be. Come on, Ali Khan.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Let’s pay a visit to Griboyedov.’ We turned a corner and stopped at the weather-beaten gravestone. Nino picked up a pebble, pressed it quickly to the gravestone and let go. The stone fell and rolled away. Nino blushed deeply. An old Tiflis superstition says that if a girl presses a pebble to the damp stone and it sticks for a moment, she will marry that same year. Hers had fallen. I looked at her embarrassed face and laughed: ‘See? Three months before our marriage! Isn’t our prophet right when he says “Do not believe what dead stones say”?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nino.

  We went back to the funicular railway. ‘What will we do when the war is over?’ asked Nino.

  ‘When the war is over? The same things we are doing now. Go for walks in Baku, see friends, go to Karabagh and have children. It’ll be wonderful.’

  ‘I would like to see Europe.’

  ‘Of course. We’ll go to Paris, to Berlin, wherever you like, for a whole winter.’

  ‘Yes, for one winter.’

  ‘Nino, don’t you like our country any more? We can live in Tiflis, if you like.’