“Well, for example, if a peasant sees some cow dung lying here on the road, he’ll automatically throw it onto his plot—but only onto the part that still belongs to him,” wheezed the agronomist. “And it’s that way with everything they do.”
“That’s peasant psychology for you,” said the chairman condescendingly.
I wanted to jot down this bit about the cow dung, but once again the chairman grabbed my arm and forced me to put away my notebook.
“What’s wrong with writing it down?” I asked.
“This is just casual conversation, not the sort of thing you should write about,” he replied with all the conviction of a man who knew better than I what one could and could not write about.
“But it’s the truth, isn’t it?” I asked in astonishment.
“But do you think every truth can be written down?” he asked, equally astonished.
And here we were both so astonished at the other’s astonishment that we burst out laughing. The agronomist snorted disdainfully.
“If I should tell them,” said the chairman, nodding in the direction of the nearest plot, “that they could keep half of the harvest from the whole plot, then they’d work the land quite differently and take in a good harvest from both parts.”
I already knew that such things went on in many kolkhozes, though of course not too openly.
“Well, why couldn’t you tell them that?” I asked.
“It would be considered a violation of the law,” he sternly replied and then added somewhat vaguely, “though sometimes we do allow them to keep half of whatever’s been harvested over and above the plan.”
Suddenly I was struck by the heavy aroma of sun-steamed tea leaves, and seconds later the tea plantation came into view—its dark-green rows of bushes extending from the right-hand side of the road all the way up to the edge of the forest. In some places the bushes gently skirted the forest, while in others they entered it, forming a sort of cove. An enormous oak stood in the middle of the plantation, and it was undoubtedly here that the tea pickers found relief from the noonday sun.
All around us it was so still that one would have thought the plantation was deserted. But now the broad-brimmed hat of one of the pickers suddenly appeared by the side of the road, while farther away there flashed a white kerchief and then a third figure in red.
“How’s it going, Gogola?” the agronomist called out to the figure in the broad-brimmed hat. The hat turned in our direction.
“Twenty kilos since morning,” said the girl, briefly raising her pretty, delicate face.
“Good girl, Gogola!” the chairman shouted happily.
The agronomist wheezed with satisfaction.
The girl bent gracefully over the tea bush and began skimming its surface with an almost caressing movement of her nimble fingers. She had gloves on her hands, but they were gloves with the fingers cut out, like those worn during the winter by lady streetcar conductors in Moscow.
The only sound to break the silence was the steady plop! plop! plop! of the tender shoots which seemed to jump of their own accord into the hands of the young picker, and from there into the basket. The latter was attached to her belt and pulled it down slightly to one side. She made her way slowly along the row of bushes, moving her hands back and forth from bush to basket and every once in a while bending over to pull out a weed from one of the bushes.
By now the heat had grown intense and there was a slight haziness on the horizon.
The sight of the tea plantation and the steady, quiet work of the almost invisible pickers seemed to have a heartening effect on the chairman.
“Good girl, Gogola, good girl!” he called out, almost crooning with satisfaction.
Still breathing heavily, the agronomist strode alongside us.
“You should put something down about Gogola, I’ll tell you all about her,” said the chairman. “Last summer she picked eighteen hundred kilos—almost two tons.”
But by now I didn’t feel like putting anything down and, more to the point, this was not the story I was after.
“Another time,” I answered. “Tell me, have you and the other kolkhoz been merged for long?”
“That’s a sore subject, my dear fellow. They’ve saddled us with a bunch of losers,” replied the chairman with distaste and then added: “This consolidation business—it’s a good measure, of course, but not for our kolkhoz. Their crop is tobacco, ours is tea. I’d rather raise ten goatibexes than have anything to do with those people.”
“Ah, good girl, Gogola, good girl,” he crooned once again, as if hoping to restore his good mood. But apparently his efforts were in vain, for he suddenly spat out in disgust: “Losers! Real losers!”
Then he grew silent.
We finally reached the area where the animals were kept. Next to a large, empty cowshed was a pen with wattle fencing, which was used for the animals in the summertime. This pen was adjoined by a smaller one, and it was here that we found the goatibex resting under a thin canvas awning.
As we approached the pen, I eagerly began examining the illustrious animal. As soon as he caught sight of us, the goatibex stopped chewing his cud and glared with pink, unblinking eyes in our direction. Then he rose to his feet and with a forward thrust of his powerful chest began stretching himself. He was a surprisingly large animal with massive horns which curled outward like a well-cultivated Cossack mustache.
“He’s healthy enough, but he’s just not interested in our female goats,” said the chairman.
“What do you mean, not interested?”
“He doesn’t mate with any of them,” explained the chairman, “our climate’s too humid. He’s used to the mountains.”
“And you say you feed him with cucumbers?” I asked, suddenly recoiling as I remembered that he had talked about the cucumbers in Abkhazian. Fortunately, however, my slip of the tongue went unnoticed.
“What do you mean!” he exclaimed. “We give him the regular, prescribed diet. The cucumbers are just an extra—a bit of local initiative on our part.”
The chairman thrust his hand into the pen and began coaxing the goatibex. The goatibex fixed his gaze on the chairman’s hand, but didn’t budge an inch.
At this point Valiko drove up. He got out of the car and as he started toward us—his pockets bulging with cucumbers—the agronomist sat down beside the fence and immediately dozed off in its meager shade. The chairman relieved Valiko of one of the cucumbers and extended his hand through the fence. The goatibex pricked up his ears and fastened his gaze on the cucumber. Then, as if hypnotized, he began to move slowly forward. But just when he had come within a few feet of the cucumber, the chairman lifted his hand so high that the goatibex was unable to reach it. The animal now proceeded to raise himself up on his hind legs, resting his forelegs on the fence. But no sooner had he extended his neck in the direction of the cucumber than the chairman raised his hand even higher. This was too much to bear, and now with one light, savage spring the goatibex leaped over the fence, almost landing on the agronomist’s head. The latter just barely opened his eyes and then dozed off again.
“His jumping ability is quite extraordinary,” solemnly declared the chairman as he surrendered the cucumber.
Baring his large yellow incisors, the goatibex seized the cucumber and began chewing on it with the frenzied impatience of a cat attacking a ball of catnip.
“You’ll have to climb over and coax him back in again,” said the chairman, turning to his driver.
Valiko groaned in disgust and climbed over the fence, accidentally dropping several cucumbers from his pockets. The goatibex would have pounced on them, but the chairman quickly chased him away and picked up the cucumbers himself. From inside the fence Valiko held up one of his remaining cucumbers and began coaxing the animal back into the pen. The chairman offered me one of the cucumbers that had fallen on the ground and himself bit into another, first rubbing it lightly on his sleeve.
“Most of our animals are pasturing up in the mo
untains,” said the chairman, smacking his lips as he ate. “We’ve kept ten of our best she-goats down here for him, but he’s just not responding.”
Once again the goatibex raised himself up, placing his forelegs on the fence. But still unable to reach the cucumber, he jumped back into the pen with an even more impressive leap than before. No sooner was he inside, however, than the driver raised the cucumber high above his head. The goatibex stopped dead in his tracks and fixed his pink, animal eyes on the cucumber. Then he jumped up, tore the cucumber from the driver’s hand, and crashed to the ground.
“He almost bit off my fingers,” grumbled Valiko as he took another cucumber from his pocket and bit into it.
All of us were now munching on cucumbers except for the agronomist, who still lay dozing against the fence.
“Hey,” shouted the chairman, “maybe this will wake you up!” And he tossed him a cucumber.
The agronomist opened his eyes and picked up the cucumber. He wiped it lethargically on his linen tunic and was about to bite into it, but then for some reason changed his mind. He put the cucumber into his pocket and dozed off again.
A little boy and girl, both about eight years old, came walking up to the pen. The little girl had a large ear of corn in her arms, which she cradled like a baby. The ear must have just been picked, since there were beads of moisture on the silky hairs protruding from beneath its green husk.
“I think the goatibex is about to start a fight,” said the little boy.
“We’d better go home,” said the little girl.
“We’ll watch him fight and then we’ll go,” declared the little boy.
“Try letting in the goats,” said the chairman.
The driver walked over and opened the gate leading into the other pen. Only now did I notice that in a corner of this larger pen a group of she-goats lay huddled together, dozing.
“Heyt, heyt!” shouted Valiko as he began to rouse them.
The goats got up unwillingly and now, raising his head in alarm, the goatibex began sniffing in their direction.
“He understands,” said the chairman, obviously delighted.
“Heyt, heyt!” Valiko kept shouting as he tried to herd the goats together and drive them through the open gate into the smaller pen. But the goats refused to go near the gate and kept running off in every direction.
“They’re afraid,” said the chairman joyfully.
The goatibex stood stock-still with his neck craned forward and his eyes glued on the gate. As he watched and sniffed, his upper lip would occasionally quiver, and I had the impression he was baring his teeth.
“He hates them,” said the chairman almost ecstatically.
“Let’s go home,” said the little girl, “I’m scared.”
“Don’t be scared,” said the little boy and then added with enthusiasm: “He’s gonna start fighting right away.”
“I can’t help being scared. He’s awful wild,” the little girl said soberly as she pressed the ear of corn to her chest.
“He’s stronger than all those goats put together,” said the little boy.
The agronomist suddenly began to chuckle, and taking the cucumber from his pocket, he broke it in half and offered it to the two children. The little girl didn’t move an inch, but merely hugged the ear of corn all the more tightly to her chest. After a moment’s hesitation the little boy edged forward and took the two halves.
“Let’s go,” said the little girl, and then glancing down at her ear of corn, she added: “Dolly’s scared too.”
Apparently she was reminding him of some previous game in order to divert his attention from the present one.
“That’s not a doll, it’s an ear of corn,” the little boy promptly retorted, violating the rules of the old game for the sake of the new. And now he too was munching away on a cucumber. The little girl had declined her half.
Swearing loudly, Valiko finally managed to drive the goats into the smaller pen and to shut the gate behind them. But no sooner were the goats inside than the goatibex charged forward, scattering them in every direction. Quickly overtaking one of the goats, he knocked her over with a thrust of his horns. She somersaulted headfirst, groaned, but then immediately jumped up and took off as fast as her legs would carry her.
The goats ran along the edge of the fence, pounding the ground with their hoofs and raising a trail of dust behind them. As they ran—sometimes spreading out, at other times bunching together—the goatibex would follow right behind, charging furiously with his horns. Every once in a while he would suddenly stop short in order to choose a better angle of attack. Then, after briefly scrutinizing them with his pink eyes, he would charge forward, scattering the poor animals all over the pen with thrusts of his horns.
“He hates them!” exclaimed the chairman once again, clicking his tongue ecstatically.
“Princess Tamara herself* wouldn’t be good enough for him!” shouted the driver from the middle of the pen where he stood enveloped in clouds of dust, like a matador in an arena.
“A fine undertaking, but not for our climate!” shouted the chairman, trying to make himself heard over the stamping and bleating of the goats.
The goatibex grew more and more ferocious, and the goats kept careening around the pen, sometimes converging, at other times scattering in different directions. Finally one of them managed to jump over the fence into the larger pen. The others went hurtling after her, but in their terror they miscalculated the height and fell back onto the ground. Once again they were forced to resume their circular flight around the pen.
“That’s enough!” shouted the chairman in Abkhazian. “We’re not going to let that swine mutilate our goats.”
“I’d be happy to roast and devour that animal at the funeral of the man who dreamed up this whole business!” shouted the driver in Abkhazian as he kicked open the gate into the larger pen. The goats rushed toward the gate, but only succeeded in blocking it as they climbed all over each other, bleating in terror. Without losing any momentum the goatibex made several flying attacks on the mass of writhing bodies, ramming them as best he could through the narrow passageway into the larger pen.
It was several minutes before the driver was able to chase him away, and for some time afterwards the goatibex was so keyed up that he kept running around the pen like an angry bull.
“Well, now we can go,” said the little girl.
“He sure gave those goats a beating, and all by himself, too!” the little boy announced to his companion. And with that they were off, their tanned and dusty feet padding noiselessly along the dirt road.
We got into the car and drove back to the kolkhoz office. Valiko pulled up in the shade of the walnut tree and we all got out except for the agronomist, who remained dozing inside.
The two old men were still sitting in their former spot, while up ahead next to a brand-new car stood Vakhtang Bochua, sporting a spanking-white suit and a rosy, good-natured smile. Catching sight of me, he comically spread out his arms as if preparing for an embrace.
“So the prodigal son has returned,” he exclaimed, “and is welcomed here in the shade of the ancient walnut tree by Vakhtang Bochua and an assemblage of village elders. Bow down and kiss the hem of my Circassian caftan, scoundrel!” he added, beaming with sunny vitality. He was accompanied by a young man who followed his every movement with undisguised admiration.
Suddenly I remembered that he might start speaking to me in Abkhazian and, seizing him by the arm, I drew him aside.
“What’s this, my friend, conspiring already?” he asked in eager anticipation.
“Would you pretend that I don’t understand Abkhazian,” I said in a low voice, “there’s been a stupid misunderstanding.”
“I get it,” said Vakhtang, “you’ve come to uncover the sinister plots being hatched by the enemies of the goatibex. Well, don’t worry, after my lecture goatibexation is going to proceed full speed ahead in the village of Walnut Springs—that I can guarantee,” he declared, g
etting carried away as usual. “Hmm, goatibexation—that’s not a bad term,… so don’t try stealing it from me before I have a chance to use it.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “only just keep quiet about my being Abkhazian.”
“Yours truly knows how to keep quiet, though it doesn’t come easily,” he assured me as we started back toward the chairman.
“I hope my lecture will awaken the creative powers of your kolkhoz, even if it doesn’t succeed in awakening your agronomist,” said Vakhtang to the chairman, at the same time chuckling and winking in my direction.
“This is, of course, an interesting undertaking, Comrade Vakhtang,” said the chairman respectfully.
“Which is just what I intend to prove,” said Vakhtang.
“What’s your connection with all this?” I asked. “The last I heard, your field was history.”
“Exactly,” exclaimed Vakhtang, “and it’s my job to consider the historical aspects of the question.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, let me explain,” he replied with a broad sweep of his hand. “What has been the fate of the mountain ibex down through the ages? He’s always been the victim of feudal hunters and the idle scions of the nobility. They tried to exterminate him, but the proud animal refused to submit. He kept retreating farther and farther up the high and inaccessible slopes of the Caucasus, though in his heart he always longed to return to our fertile Abkhazian valleys.”
“Oh, come off it!” I said.
“To continue:” he went on, patting himself on the stomach and obviously delighted at his own resourcefulness. “And what has been the traditional role of our plain and unpretentious Abkhazian goat? She has always been the mainstay of our poorest peasantry.”
The two old men were listening respectfully to Vakhtang’s speech though they obviously didn’t understand a word of it. The one with the staff had even forgotten about his hole and was sitting in rapt attention with one ear bent slightly forward in order to catch Vakhtang’s every word.
“He’s got quite a way with words,” said the one with the stick.
The Goatibex Constellation Page 8
