“Maybe he’s one of them radio fellows,” suggested the one with the staff.
“… But she, our humble goat,” Vakhtang was continuing, “dreamed of a better fate, or to put it more precisely: she dreamed of an encounter with the ibex… And now, thanks to the efforts of some of our talented specialists (and Abkhazia has always been rich in talent), the mountain ibex has finally encountered our humble domestic goat—plain and unpretentious to be sure, but all the more charming for that.”
I blocked my ears.
“Apparently he’s been reminded of something unpleasant, see how he’s stopped up his ears,” said the old man with the stick.
“Probably he’s cursing himself for not being able to cure the goatibex,” added the old man with the staff. “Why, up in the mountains I used to kill those goatibexes by the hundreds, and now people are cursing themselves over the loss of a single one of them.”
“Well, I guess these modern doctors have their problems too,” said the old man with the stick.
“… And it is precisely to the intimate details of this encounter that my lecture will be devoted,” concluded Vakhtang, now taking out his handkerchief and mopping his perspiring brow.
At this point several disheveled young men walked up to the chairman. They were clearly city types and turned out to be the electricians who had come to install power lines in the village. Right away they launched into an interminably long argument with the chairman. It seemed that some aspect of their work had been omitted from the cost estimate, and now they refused to go back to work until the estimate was revised. The chairman was trying to convince them that this was no reason to walk off the job.
One could not help admiring the skill with which he conducted the argument. It was carried on simultaneously in three languages—Abkhazian, Georgian and Russian—and while addressing the most aggressive member of the group in Russian, the official language, he quickly singled out a quiet Kakhetian* who had hardly opened his mouth and directed most of his remarks to him.
At times the chairman would turn in our direction as if appealing to us as witnesses. Vakhtang would respond with a dignified nod of the head and mumble something to the effect: no doubt about it, you’re making a fuss over nothing, my friends; I’ll have everything straightened out in the Ministry.
“Do you give these lectures very often?” I asked Vakhtang.
“The requests keep pouring in; I’ve given eighty lectures in the last two months—ten of them benefits and the rest paid,” he reported.
“Well, and what’s the response?”
“The public listens and the public understands,” he replied obscurely.
“And what’s your opinion of all this?”
“Personally, I’m intrigued by his high wool yield.”
“Come on, be serious.”
“The goatibex needs to be shorn,” replied Vakhtang with a straight face. Then suddenly breaking into a smile, he added: “Which is just what I intend to do.”
“Well, okay,” I said, cutting him short, “I’ve got to be going.”
“Don’t be an idiot, stay for a while,” said Vakhtang, and lowering his voice, he added: “There’ll be some home hospitality after the lecture. For me they’ll be happy to slaughter every last goatibex…”
“And what makes you so popular?” I asked.
“Oh, I promised the chairman I’d help him get his fertilizer,” he replied seriously, “and I really will, too.”
“And what’s your connection with fertilizer?”
“My dear boy,” Vakhtang smiled patronizingly, “everything in this world is connected. Andrey Sharlovich has a nephew who wants to enter the Institute this fall, and your humble servant just happens to be on the admissions board. Why shouldn’t the chairman of the district executive committee help a good kolkhoz chairman? And why shouldn’t I lend a hand to a young high school graduate? It’s all done unselfishly, for the benefit of others.”
By now the chairman had succeeded in persuading the workmen to go back to work. He promised to send a telegram right away, instructing an engineer to be sent out from the city to find out who was at fault. The chairman was obviously impatient to be on his way, and the workmen finally plodded off in gloomy fashion, apparently none too satisfied with their partial victory.
I said good-bye to everyone, and the old men politely went through the motions of half rising to see me off.
“The bus has already passed by here, but my driver will take you directly to the highway,” said the chairman.
“My driver will be happy to take you too,” interjected Vakhtang.
The chairman summoned Valiko and the two of us got into the car.
“I’m afraid he’s going to write some sort of nonsense against us,” said the chairman to Vakhtang in Abkhazian.
“Don’t worry,” replied Vakhtang, “I’ve already given him instructions as to what to write and what not to write.”
“Thanks, my dear Vakhtang,” said the chairman and then, turning to his driver, he added: “Stop at that restaurant out on the highway and see that he gets plenty to drink. I know these journalists—they can’t get along without alcohol.”
“Will do,” answered the driver in Abkhazian. Vakhtang burst out laughing.
“You don’t approve, Comrade Vakhtang?” the chairman asked anxiously.
“My friend, I thoroughly approve,” exclaimed Vakhtang, embracing the chairman with one arm. Then, turning in my direction, he shouted above the roar of the motor: “Tell my friend Avtandil Avtandilovich that the promotion of the goatibex is in reliable hands!”
V
The car set off down the road, leaving a trail of dust behind it. The sun had almost set, but there was no letup from the heat.
“Some sort of nonsense against us…” the chairman had said. The way he put it, I might write either for or against them, but whatever I wrote would undoubtedly be nonsense. And now as I reflected sadly on his words, I had to admit that he was not very far from the truth.
With regard to the alleged persecution of the goatibex, for example, I learned from the driver that a short time ago the goatibex had broken loose, run off into the tea fields and gorged himself on tea leaves until, as Valiko put it, he went haywire. He had then raced wildly through the village and at this point some dogs had actually pursued him. The villagers thought he had gone mad and wanted to shoot him, but in the end he had gradually quieted down.
The car leapt onto the highway and a few minutes later pulled up to a pale-blue roadside restaurant. We’ll see what luck you have luring me into this place, I thought to myself, at the same time firmly resolving to defend my reputation.
Valiko gazed at me with blue-eyed innocence and asked:
“Shall we stop here for a bite to eat?”
“Thanks anyway, but I think I’ll wait till I get back to town.”
“You’ve got a long way to go.”
“Still, I’d rather be on my way,” I objected, trying to sound as polite as possible. There was something I liked about this fellow with his sparkling blue eyes.
“Just a quick bite,” he said, opening the car door. “We’ll each order whatever we feel like and pay for it ourselves, Russian-fashion.”
What am I worried about, I thought to myself. I know that he’s planning to get me drunk, but he doesn’t know that I know—which gives me the advantage.
“Okay,” I said, “we’ll have a quick bite, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Why sure, just some lobio* and greens, that’s all.”
Valiko locked the car and we went into the restaurant.
The place was deserted except for a party sitting in the corner, squeezed around two tables which had been pushed together. They must have been there for quite a while, since there were half a dozen bottles lying on the floor like emptied cartridge cases. The only woman among the revelers was a blonde, probably a Russian or Ukrainian. She was wearing a sundress with a low neckline and every few minutes she would examine her
newly acquired tan. Apparently the tan added to her self-confidence.
Valiko selected a table in the opposite corner—a good choice as far as I was concerned.
The two waitresses sat quietly conversing at a table by the window. Valiko walked up to them, carefully avoiding the middle of the room. Apparently he did not want to attract the attention of the party in the corner. Catching sight of him, the waitresses flashed a friendly smile. The younger one’s smile was especially friendly. After greeting both of them in turn, Valiko leaned toward the younger one and began relating some story. The girl continued to smile as she listened to him, her face growing progressively more animated.
“Oh, come on, come on,” she seemed to be saying, feebly pushing him away with her hand as she continued to listen with obvious pleasure.
Such fellows always hit it off with waitresses, I thought to myself. But just at that moment her expression changed and I realized that Valiko had started to place our order. I began to get nervous, and now as the waitress happened to glance in my direction, I quickly cried out:
“Don’t order any wine for me!”
“How can you have a meal without wine?” said Valiko, turning in my direction and throwing up his hands in despair.
The party in the corner finally took notice of us, and one of them called out:
“Valiko, come join us!”
“Sorry, old man, I’m afraid I can’t,” said Valiko, laying his hand on his heart.
“Come on, just for a minute.”
“My apologies to all of you and to the lovely lady, but I’m afraid I can’t,” said Valiko, and backing away respectfully, he returned to our table.
Several minutes later the waitress appeared with an enormous plate of fresh scallions mixed with crimson radishes—the latter peeping through the green scallions like little red beasts. Along with the salad we received separate portions of lobio and bread.
“Don’t forget the mineral water, Lidochka,” said Valiko. And now beginning to relax, I suddenly realized how little I’d had to eat all day. We started off with the lobio, which was cold and unbelievably peppery, and then munched away at the radishes and scallions. Each time I bit into one of the spearlike scallions stems, it would spurt forth a spray of its sharp, pungent juice as if in self-defense.
The waitress reappeared with the mineral water and at the same time placed a bottle of wine on the table.
“Nothing doing,” I said firmly, putting the bottle of wine back on the tray.
“For God’s sake,” whispered Valiko, gazing at me with his clear blue eyes in which there was now a look of anxiety.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“They’re treating you,” said the waitress, casting a glance at the party in the corner.
As we followed her gaze, our eyes met those of the young man who had greeted Valiko. He was beaming proudly in our direction. Valiko nodded his thanks and shook his head in reproach, whereupon the young man modestly lowered his eyes. The waitress set the wine bottle back on the table and walked off with the empty tray.
“I’m not going to drink any,” I said.
“You don’t have to drink it, it can just stand there,” said Valiko.
We started eating again, but the wine seemed somehow to get in the way.
Valiko picked up the bottle of mineral water and asked meekly:
“May I pour you some mineral water?”
“Yes, mineral water’s okay,” I replied, feeling utterly ridiculous.
Having each downed a glass of mineral water, we went back to work on the lobio.
“It’s very spicy,” observed Valiko, noisily drawing in a mouthful of air.
“Yes, it is,” I agreed. The lobio did in fact set one’s mouth on fire.
“I wonder why the Russians don’t like peppers,” Valiko queried abstractly, and then reaching for the bottle of wine, he added: “Probably it’s the difference in climate.”
“Probably so,” I agreed, now watching to see what he would do next.
“You don’t have to drink it, just let it stand there,” said Valiko as he poured out some wine for both of us.
A subtle and fragrant aroma rose from our glasses. It was Isabella wine, a deep crimson in color like pomegranate juice. Valiko wiped his hands on his napkin, finished chewing a radish, and slowly reached for his glass.
“You don’t have to drink it, just have a taste,” he said, gazing at me with his clear blue eyes.
“I don’t want any,” I replied, feeling like an absolute idiot.
“May I dig up my father’s old bones and throw them to the dirty, stinking dogs, if you don’t raise your glass!” he exclaimed in Abkhazian and then abruptly broke off. His enormous blue eyes froze with horror at his own unheard-of sacrilege, and I myself was somewhat dumfounded by this blasphemous outburst.
“The old bones of my father… to the dirty dogs!” he recapitulated and then slumped over the table without a murmur. I grew alarmed.
Don’t worry, I thought to myself, you’re not going to get high on one bottle. All the more so since you have the advantage of knowing that he wants to get you drunk, while he doesn’t know that you know.
We were finishing off the last glass of wine and I still felt completely in control. No one was going to put anything over on me—and actually, Valiko was a nice fellow and everything was turning out quite all right.
The waitress came up with two shish kebabs sizzling on skewers.
“Bring them a bottle of wine from us, and a bar of chocolate for the lady,” ordered Valiko. Then with the leisurely finesse of a provincial gourmet he began freeing the still sizzling meat clinging to the metal skewers.
A friendly custom, I thought to myself and suddenly announced:
“Bring them two bottles and two bars of chocolate…”
“The guest said two bottles,” solemnly confirmed Valiko, and the waitress walked off.
A few minutes later the young man at the other table shook his head in reproach, whereupon Valiko modestly lowered his eyes. The young man then had two bottles of wine sent over to us, whereupon Valiko shook his head in reproach and waved an admonishing finger at him. The young man lowered his head with even greater modesty.
We raised our glasses several times and solemnly toasted our new friends, their old parents, and of course the blonde, who was such a lovely representative of a great people. And now as the rays of the setting sun beat through the window upon her back and glimmered in her hair, simultaneously her face, neck and very bare shoulders were bathed by the shower of compliments emanating from inside the room.
“Let’s drink to the goatibex,” suggested Valiko somewhat more intimately when it began to appear as if both sides had exhausted their supply of collective toasts.
“Okay, let’s drink to him,” I said. And we drank to him.
“A fine undertaking, to say the least,” said Valiko, and on his lips there appeared a faint smile, the significance of which I did not yet perceive.
“Let’s hope it’s successful,” I said.
“I hear the goatibex is beginning to catch on in Russia, too,” he added, the same faint smile still playing about his lips.
“Yes, slowly but surely,” I replied.
“It’s a matter of State significance,” observed Valiko, his eyes now burning with a mysterious blue glitter.
“Yes, it is,” I confirmed.
“I wonder what our enemies are saying about the goatibex,” he asked unexpectedly.
“They don’t seem to be saying anything yet,” I answered.
“Not yet,” he drawled emphatically. “There’s more to the goatibex than meets the eye,” he added after a moment’s reflection.
“There’s always more to everything than first meets the eye,” I said, trying to grasp what he was driving at.
“But I’ve got something specific in mind,” he said. Then with a piercing glance of his fiery blue eyes he quickly added: “Shall we drink a separate toast to the goatibex’s
horns?”
“Okay, let’s,” I said, and we emptied our glasses.
But now for some reason Valiko grew sad. He put down his glass and dejectedly began toying with his shish kebab.
“I have a daughter,” he said, gazing up at me with sad eyes, “three years old.”
“A wonderful age,” I said, doing my best to support this domestic theme.
“She understands everything even though she’s only a little girl,” he added defensively.
“That’s very unusual,” I said, “you really are lucky, Valiko.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “I do everything I can for her. But don’t think I’m complaining—I’m happy to do it.”
“I understand,” I said, although by now I didn’t understand a thing.
“No, you don’t understand,” Valiko retorted.
“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly noticing that his clear blue eyes had grown glassy.
“May I boil that innocent child in the hominy pot if…”
“Stop it!” I exclaimed.
“Boil her in the hominy pot,” he continued pitilessly, “and tear her limbs apart with my own two hands, if you don’t tell me what they want with the goatibex—though actually I’ve already figured it out!” he exclaimed with all the passion of the truth seeker who has kept silent too long.
“What do you mean, want with him? Why, meat and wool, of course,” I stammered.
“Don’t you believe it! They’re extracting the atom from his horns,” Valiko declared confidently.
“The atom?!”
“I know for a fact that they’re extracting the atom, but just how—I haven’t figured out,” he said with conviction. And once again a mysterious smile hovered about his lips—the smile of a man who knows more than he’s willing to let on.
I looked into his good-natured, but now utterly uncomprehending eyes and realized that there was nothing I could do to alter his conviction.
“I swear by my grandfather’s ashes that I know nothing of the sort,” I exclaimed.
“So they haven’t told you people either,” exclaimed Valiko in amazement. But what seemed to amaze him was not the fact that people like myself hadn’t been informed, but rather that the riddle of the goatibex was proving even more unfathomable than he had imagined.
The Goatibex Constellation Page 9
