And now as I thought of these animals, I suddenly remembered the period during the war when I had stayed longest at my grandfather’s and for six months had had the job of tending my uncle’s goats. How strange, I reflected, that so much time has passed since then—I’ve finished school, the Institute, and am already on my second job—and yet here I am after all these years, once again about to come face to face with these same goats who, like myself, have come up in the world and are now transforming themselves into goatibexes.
I began to recall those long-forgotten days when I was still a boy and goats were still goats and not goatibexes. And as I thought back to this period in my life, one particular evening and its adventures came suddenly to mind.
The year was 1942, and I was living at my grandfather’s house in the mountains. The fear of bombings and, more important, the fear of starvation had driven me into this relatively quiet and well-nourished corner of Abkhazia.
Our home city had been bombed only twice, and probably the Germans had dropped on us the bombs that were meant for more important targets which had been too well protected for them to attack.
After the first bombing there was a mass exodus from the city. The coffeehouse orators sensibly suspended their endless political discussions and withdrew to the outlying villages where for the first time in their lives they began to appreciate the virtues of Abkhazian hominy grits.
The only people to remain in the city were those whose services were indispensable or who had nowhere to go. Since our family didn’t fit into either of these categories, we soon left town along with everyone else.
After prior consultation and deliberation our country relatives parceled us out among them, taking into account our individual needs and capacities.
As a confirmed urbanite my older brother wanted to stay with the relatives whose village lay closest to the city. He got his wish, but from there was soon drafted into the army.
My sister was sent to the family of a distant relative who for some reason or other—undoubtedly his wealth—had always been considered very close to us. As the smallest and least useful member of the family I was sent off to my uncle in the mountains. Mama stayed somewhere midway between us, at the house of her older sister.
At this time my uncle still owned some twenty goats and three sheep, and no sooner had I arrived and begun to get my bearings than I found myself their newly appointed keeper.
Slowly but surely I managed to gain control over this small, obstreperous herd. What united us was the hypnotic power of two age-old expressions: “Heyt!” and “Iyoh!” These words had numerous shades of meaning, depending on how one pronounced them. The goats understood these meanings very well, but sometimes when it was to their advantage, they would confuse them.
The variety of meanings was indeed impressive. For example, if one called out “Heyt! Heyt!” loud and clear, this meant: Graze on to your heart’s content, there’s nothing to be afraid of.
These same sounds could be pronounced in a pedantic and reproachful tone, in which case they meant: You can’t fool me, I can see where you’re off to—or something to this effect. If, on the other hand, one called out “Iyoh! Iyoh!” quickly and abruptly, this was to be interpreted: Danger! Come back!
At the sound of my voice the goats would generally look up, as if trying to figure out just what it was I expected of them this time.
They always grazed with a certain disdainful look on their faces, and at times I could not help being annoyed at the way in which they would carelessly discard one half-chewed branch, only to move greedily on to another. They were capricious and wasteful, whereas we humans had to hoard every crumb. It hardly seemed fair.
Tearing the leaves from the bushes, they would rise up on their hind legs and try to get at the youngest and tenderest leaves, which were usually the farthest from reach. At such moments there was something shamelessly impudent about them, perhaps because now, raised up on their hind legs, they resembled human beings. Much later when I saw depictions of satyrs (probably in the paintings of El Greco), it occurred to me that the artist was using these weird figures to convey the very essence of human shamelessness.
The goats loved to graze on steep, precipitous slopes in close proximity to a mountain stream. I’m convinced that the sound of water whetted their appetites, just as it does our own. And in this regard it would seem no accident that when traveling in the country, we humans usually stop to eat next to a brook or stream. Apart from our need for something to drink, the very sound of running water undoubtedly makes our food seem more succulent and tasty.
The sheep usually brought up the rear and would graze with their heads bent low, as if sniffing the grass. They preferred the open and flatter areas, where I had an easy time keeping an eye on them. If something happened to frighten them, however, they would run off so quickly that it would be impossible to stop them. Their stubby tails would smack against their buttocks as they ran, and this only frightened them all the more. Thus they would continue running at breakneck speed, urged on by each successive wave of fear and agitation. And when they could run no longer, they would finally take refuge in the nearest bushes. Here they would rest for a while, heaving and panting with their mouths thrown open in doglike fashion.
The goats chose to rest in the rockiest and most elevated spots and would lie down wherever they could find a clean and uncluttered piece of ground. The highest spot would generally be occupied by the oldest male, who had terrifying horns and was hoary with age—his yellowed hair hanging in tufts along his sides. One could see that he knew his role in life: he always moved slowly, his long astrologer’s beard swaying with an air of self-importance. And if in a moment of forgetfulness one of the younger males happened to usurp his place, he would calmly approach the young upstart and, without even deigning to look at him, push him away with a sidelong thrust of his horns.
Once a goat happened to disappear from the herd. I wore myself out, running from bush to bush, tearing my clothes on the thorns, and crying myself hoarse. And all to no avail; the goat was nowhere to be found. Later on, as we were returning home, I just happened to look up, and there she was—perched on the thick branch of a wild persimmon tree. Somehow she had managed to clamber up its crooked trunk. Our eyes met and she stared straight at me, but with no sign of recognition. Obviously she had no intention of getting down. I finally pelted her with a stone, and only then did she gracefully jump down and go running up to the herd.
I think goats are the most cunning of all four-legged creatures. I had only to let my mind wander a moment and sometimes they would vanish without a trace, as if swallowed up by the white stones, ferns, and walnut thickets. And how hot and frightened I would become as I ran off in pursuit of them. Lizards would dart like tiny flashes of greening lightning across the narrow, crackling path, and sometimes even a snake would appear at my feet. I would take off like a shot, and all along the bottom of the foot which had just missed stepping on the snake, I would feel the awful sensation of its cold, resilient body. I would keep on running for a long time, my legs still tingling with the giddy and almost exhilarating sensation of fear.
And when I could run no longer, how strange it was to stop and listen to the murmur of the bushes, wondering if perhaps this was where they had hidden; how strange to listen to the rustling of the grasshoppers, to the singing of the larks in the distant, mighty blue, or to the voice of a chance wayfarer passing along the country road which was hidden from view. And how strange to listen to the slow, strong beat of my heart as I breathed in the pungent odor of vegetation wilted by the sun. Oh, the sweet languor of a still summer day!
In good weather I would lie on the grass in the shade of a large alder tree, listening to the familiar drone of our small training planes as they flew over the mountains to where the fighting was going on.
Once as I was tending my uncle’s herd, one of these planes came flying over the nearest ridge with a panic-stricken roar. It plummeted like a stone into the depths of th
e Kodor Valley and only at the very last minute managed to right itself. Then, without gaining any altitude it continued onward to the coast. Through every nerve of my body I could feel the almost human terror with which it had crossed over the ridge, apparently in a desperate attempt to save itself from a German fighter-bomber. With uncanny speed its shadow had skimmed across the meadow right past me, grazed a tobacco plantation and then, seconds later, could be seen passing far below along the Kodor Delta.
Every once in a while a German plane would fly over at a very high altitude. It could be recognized by its elusive wail which had something in common with the whining of a malarial mosquito. Usually when an enemy plane approached the city, our antiaircraft guns would begin to open fire, and all around it shells would explode in flowerlike clusters. But the plane would pass through them, one and all, as if protected by some magic spell. In fact, not once during the entire course of the war did I ever see one of these planes put out of action.
One of my relatives who had gone to the city to sell some pigs once arrived back with the news that my brother had been wounded. He was lying in a hospital in Baku and apparently could hardly wait for Mama’s arrival. We were all very upset by the news and felt that we must get in touch with Mama as quickly as possible. Since it turned out that I was the only one who could be spared for the trip, I immediately began to make ready.
After the women had filled me up on cheese and hominy grits and Grandfather had provided me with one of his walking sticks, I finally set off, though by now it was already late in the day and the sun was hanging low in the sky, no higher than the treetops. I had all but forgotten the way, or, rather, the exact location of Uncle Meksut’s house where my mother was staying, but I refused to listen to any directions. I was afraid they might change their minds about letting me go.
As best I could remember, I had first to walk through the forest which ran along the crest of the mountain and then to take the loggers’ road which led down from the mountain and eventually reached Uncle Meksut’s village.
Upon entering the forest, I felt as if I had suddenly plunged into a mountain stream. The warm summer day was left behind, and I made my way quickly along the path, breathing in the clean, damp coolness of the forest and listening to the vaguely disquieting rustle of the treetops. And the deeper I penetrated into the woods, the more briskly and energetically I would tap my walking stick against the firmly resilient, root-covered earth.
Out of the corner of my eye I was able to take in the beauty of my surroundings: the charming and unexpected glades covered with bright, downy grass; the silver-gray beeches with their mighty trunks; and the thick chestnut trees whose bases were heaped with last year’s reddish-brown leaves. How I would have like to lie down on these leaves and rest my head on the tree’s huge, moss-covered roots! In the clearings between the trees I would occasionally catch sight of the smoky-green valley and beyond it the sea, suspended between earth and sky like a mirage. Night was beginning to fall.
Suddenly from around a bend in the path there appeared two young girls. They seemed both frightened and pleased to see me. I recognized them as being from the same village, though in this setting there was something strange and unfamiliar about them—something shy and fawnlike. Their heads were lowered and they spoke in hushed, almost apologetic tones. One of them had been carrying her shoes in a bag and now was obviously embarrassed by her bare feet. She stood there scratching one foot with the other, as if trying to conceal at least one of them.
Gradually the girls’ embarrassment communicated itself to me. Unable to think of anything to talk about, I quickly said good-bye. They nodded in farewell and continued quietly, even stealthily, on their way.
Soon afterwards I caught sight of the reddish-yellow road which led to Uncle Meksut’s village. The road lay before me through the darkening trees and from a distance looked like a mountain stream. Happy at the thought of being able to walk on level ground, I quickly started down from the ridge, using my walking stick as a partial brake to avoid crashing into the dusky rhododendron bushes.
I almost fell onto the road. Yet despite the fact that my legs were covered with sweat and trembling from the strain, I immediately felt exhilarated by the smell of gasoline and of road dust, warm and stagnant at the end of the day. Here once again was that peculiarly city smell which had always excited me and now made me suddenly aware of how homesick I was. And although from here it was even farther to the city than from my grandfather’s village, I nonetheless began to imagine that this country road would take me straight into town.
I walked along in the twilight, taking note of the tire tracks beneath my feet and rejoicing whenever I came upon a particularly distinct ribbed pattern. As I continued on my way, the road gradually became lighter, thanks to the enormous amber moon which was beginning to climb out from behind a jagged strip of forest.
During my summers up in the mountains I had spent many an evening gazing at the moon. It was supposed to be inhabited by a shepherd with a herd of white goats, but hard as I tried, I was never able to make out either the shepherd or his herd. Apparently one had to have seen them from earliest childhood. But all I saw when I gazed up at the moon’s cold disk were some jagged, rock-hewn mountains. These mountains always made me feel sad, perhaps because they were so terribly far away and at the same time so similar to our own mountains here on earth.
Right now the moon resembled a round of smoked mountain cheese. With what pleasure I would have nibbled away at a hunk of this cheese, savoring its sharp taste and smoky aroma! And how I would have loved some hot grits along with it!
I hastened my steps. A sparse alder grove ran along both sides of the road, giving way in some places to corn and tobacco fields. The evening was very still; only the tapping of my stick broke the silence. Soon farmhouses began to appear, and I was cheered by their tiny, well-kept yards and by the warm, cozy glow of the fires which could be seen flickering through their half-open kitchen doors.
I listened eagerly to the sound of human voices coming from inside—sometimes faint and muffled, at other times surprisingly distinct.
“Let the dog out,” I heard a male voice.
The kitchen door burst open and a dog suddenly started barking in my direction. I hastened my steps and, looking back, noticed the dark figure of a girl silhouetted in the reddish square of the open door. She stood there motionless, peering into the darkness.
Not wanting to run into any dogs, I made my way past each house as stealthily as possible. Finally I came to a wide clearing, in the middle of which stood a large walnut tree encircled with wooden benches. This was a busy spot during the day, when the villagers would gather around the kolkhoz office and store. But now, in the moonlight, the place seemed empty and forlorn, even frightening.
I remembered that somewhere near the village soviet I needed to turn left from the road onto a path. But when I reached the spot, there turned out to be several paths and I couldn’t for the life of me recall which was the right one.
I stopped before one path which led off into a wild hazel grove, but couldn’t decide whether to take it. I didn’t remember there being any hazel bushes, but perhaps there had been after all. At one moment I would seem to recognize the path by a number of small details: its curve, the ditch that separated it from the road, and the hazel bushes. But then, the next moment it would seem that the ditch and the hazel bushes were not the same and the path itself would appear totally alien and unfamiliar.
As I stood there shifting form one foot to the other and listening to the chirring of the cicadas, my gaze wandered from the charmed stillness of the bushes up to the moon, which by now had risen high in the sky and shone with an almost blinding light, like that of a mirror.
Suddenly something black and glossy skidded onto the path and came running toward me. Before I had a chance to move, a large and powerful dog had thrust its moist nose between my legs and was sniffing me over unceremoniously. Seconds later a man appeared with a hatchet slung
over his shoulder. He drove off the dog with such dispatch that I could understand why the animal had been in such a hurry to sniff me. The dog jumped away, then circled and yelped for a while, obviously eager to please its master. Finally it came to a halt by the hazel bushes and began sniffing the tracks of some animal.
The man had a bridle strapped around his middle and was apparently searching for his horse. He walked up to me and looked me over, obviously surprised to see an unfamiliar face.
“Who do you belong to, and what are you doing here?” he asked, quite annoyed at not being able to recognize me. I told him that I was trying to find Uncle Meksut’s house.
“What do you need to see him for?” he asked, now in a tone of happy astonishment. Realizing that it would be hard to get the better of his peasant curiosity, I decided to tell him everything.
Glancing sideways at the dog and trying not to let it out of my sight, I began filling him in on the details, while he for his part kept shaking his head and clicking his tongue. Apparently he felt sorry that a young boy like me had to be involved in such adult matters.
“Well, Meksut lives right near here,” he said, pointing down the path with his hatchet.
He began telling me the way, continually interrupting himself to express his joyful astonishment at how close Meksut’s house was and how easy it was to get to. The only thing I understood from all this was that I had to follow the path. I decided not to question him any further, however, since I was already more than grateful for our encounter and for the knowledge that Meksut’s house was close by.
The man now summoned his dog. I could hear the sound of its breathing as it approached, and seconds later its mighty body leapt forth from behind the bushes. The dog went running up to its master, then dropped back on its haunches and began beating the grass with its tail. Once again reminded of my existence, it gave me another quick sniff, but this time with the perfunctoriness of an official checking an I.D. card which he knows to be in order.
The Goatibex Constellation Page 5
