As we left the restaurant, a warm, starry sky rose darkly above us. The sky was swaying—first coming closer, then retreating. But even as it retreated, it seemed a lot closer than usual. Large, unfamiliar stars blazed in the heavens; strange, unfamiliar thoughts flashed through my mind. It occurred to me that perhaps our friendly drinking bout had brought us closer to the heavens. Some constellation or other stubbornly kept twinkling above my head, and its contours seemed strangely familiar. The goatibex’s head!—I suddenly realized to my delight—only one of his eyes was excessively small and myopic looking, while the other was large and kept winking.
“The Goatibex Constellation,” I said.
“Where?” asked Valiko.
“Up there,” I said, and embracing him with one arm, I pointed to the constellation.
“So they’ve already renamed it,” said Valiko, looking up at the sky.
“Yes,” I confirmed, continuing to gaze at the sky. It was a real goatibex’s head except that one of his eyes kept winking—but just why it kept winking, I couldn’t figure out for the life of me.
“If I’ve done anything wrong, please forgive me,” said Valiko.
“I’m the one who should ask your forgiveness,” I said.
“If you want to make sure the goatibex is resting comfortably, we can go back and have a look,” said Valiko.
“No,” I said, “I don’t have time for that.”
“Well then, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way,” he said. “I can still make the movie.”
We embraced like brothers, united by our common bond with the goatibex. Then Valiko got into the car.
“Don’t wander off anywhere and be sure to get on the Zugdidi bus,” he said.
For some reason I almost hoped that he’d have trouble starting the car. But it started up right away, and now he shouted once again:
“Don’t take any other bus, wait for the one from Zugdidi!”
For a few minutes I heard the roar of his motor receding into the darkness. Then it died away, and I was left alone in the warm, starlit summer night.
On the other side of the highway there was a park, and beyond the park I could hear the muffled sound of waves breaking against the shore.
Feeling a sudden urge to be close to the sea, I got up and walked across the highway. I remembered that I was supposed to be waiting for the bus, but at that moment it seemed just as logical to wait for it on the seashore.
I entered the park and made my way along one of its tree-lined paths. Silhouetted against the black shadows of the cypress trees were pale phantoms of eucalypti—their broad leaves stirring gently in the cool breeze which blew in from the sea. Every now and then I glanced up at the sky, but there was no cause for alarm. The Goatibex Constellation remained firmly in place.
I was not so drunk as to be oblivious of everything, but just drunk enough to imagine that I was oblivious of nothing.
A couple was sitting on a bench right by the shore. As I started to approach them, they turned their bluish faces in my direction and immediately stopped talking.
“Move over a bit,” I said to the boy, and not waiting for an invitation, I sat down between them. The girl gave a timid laugh.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said peaceably. “I want to show you something.”
“Who’s afraid?” said the boy, not too confidently as it seemed to me. I ignored his words and turned to the girl:
“Look up at the sky,” I said to her in a normal voice, “and what do you see?”
The girl looked at the sky and then at me, trying to make up her mind whether I was drunk or crazy.
“Stars,” she said in an overly natural voice.
“No, look up here, right here,” I patiently objected, now taking her gently by the shoulder and trying to direct her glance toward the Goatibex Constellation.
“Let’s go, they’ll soon be locking up,” the boy said gloomily. He was obviously trying his best to get out of a bad situation.
“Locking up where?” I asked, politely turning in his direction. It pleased me to know that he was afraid of me—all the more so since in this case my manners had been impeccable.
“At the tourist camp,” he replied.
It suddenly occurred to me that there might be some mysterious and perhaps even dangerous connection between the Goatibex Constellation and the tourist camp.*
“Strange that you should mention the tourist camp,” I said, apparently more sternly than necessary. The boy did not reply, and I looked at the girl. She had wrapped her woolen sweater snugly around her shoulders as if to escape some cosmic chill emanating from my person.
I looked up at the sky. The bright dotted outline of the goatibex’s face was swaying—sometimes coming closer, at other times moving farther away. Every now and then his big eye would wink. I was sure that this winking had some special significance, but exactly what it was, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out.
“Goatibex watching is a favorite pastime for tourists,” I said.
“Perhaps we should be on our way,” said the girl quietly.
“Well, go ahead,” I said calmly, at the same time letting them know that I was disappointed in them.
Seconds later they had disappeared from sight. I closed my eyes and began to ponder the significance of the goatibex’s winking. The sea’s refreshing coolness and the steady pounding of the waves lulled my senses and from time to time I would sink into oblivion, only to emerge seconds later like a piece of rock rising from the foam of an outgoing wave.
Suddenly I opened my eyes and saw two policemen standing before me.
“Let’s see your papers,” said one of them.
I mechanically reached into my pocket for my passport* and handed it to him. Then I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, it seemed as if a considerable amount of time had passed and I was surprised to see the two policemen still standing there.
“You’re not allowed to sleep here,” said one of them, returning my passport.
“I’m waiting for the Zugdidi bus,” I said, closing my eyes once again or, rather, easing up on my efforts to keep them open.
The policemen chuckled.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” one of them asked.
I felt something unpleasantly abnormal about my left arm and quickly raised it, only to discover that my watch was missing.
“My watch!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. “Someone’s stolen my watch!”
By now I was completely awake and completely sober. The sun had already come up and there was a raw wind blowing in from the mountain pass. The rollers were breaking heavily against the shore. Standing on a strip of beach across from us was an elderly tourist, doing his morning calisthenics. As he lowered himself slowly, painfully slowly on his long thin legs, I couldn’t help wondering if he would ever get up again. But having rested at the bottom of his deep knee bend, he managed to raise himself in slow, wobbling fashion. Once fully erect, he stretched out his arms and froze in position as if he were trying to regain his balance. Or perhaps he merely wished to listen to the inner workings of his body after this strenuous exertion.
The policemen had also been following the old man’s movements and now, no longer worried on his account, one of them turned to me and asked:
“What make was your watch—a Pobeda?”*
“No, a Doxa—a Swiss watch,” I replied bitterly, though not without feeling a certain pride at the magnitude of my loss.
“Who was with you?” asked the other policeman.
“I was alone,” I replied cautiously.
“We’ll go back to the station and file a report,” said the policeman who had taken my passport. “Then if it turns up, we’ll notify you.”
“Okay, let’s go,” I said. And we set off.
I felt very sad at the loss of my watch, which I’d come to think of almost as an old friend. It had been a high school graduation present from my uncle, and I had worn it all these years without anything ever happeni
ng to it. It was waterproof, shatterproof, antimagnetic, and its black shiny face gleamed like a miniature night sky. Several times during my student days at the Institute I had accidentally left it in the dormitory washroom, but the cleaning lady or one of my classmates had always returned it to me. Thus, over the years I had somehow come to believe that in addition to all its other virtues it was also theftproof.
“Do you have an import authorization form for your watch?” asked one of the policemen.
“How could I?” I replied. “It was war booty, my uncle brought it back in forty-five.”
“Do you remember the serial number?” he asked, continuing with his questions.
“No,” I answered, “but I’ll recognize it without that.”
We had cut diagonally through the park and come out onto a quiet, unfamiliar street. This street—as indeed every street in town—was lined with one-story houses mounted on long, rickety piles. The residents of this town were occupied solely with the building of such houses. And once they had built one, they would immediately begin selling it or exchanging it at additional cost for some other house which was supposedly more attractive—though in what way, one could never figure out, for all of these houses were as much alike as peas in a pod. The owners themselves scarcely had time to enjoy them, since for half the year they would rent them out to tourists in order to accumulate enough capital to begin frantically building a new house with even longer and ricketier legs. In this town a man’s whole worth was defined by the phrase: “He’s building a house.”
A man who’s building a house is an honest man, a decent and deserving man. A man who’s building a house is a man who keeps himself busy in his spare time, a man who has put down roots. If something happens, he’s not going to take off—which means he’s trustworthy. And a trustworthy man is a man you can invite to weddings and funerals, a man who would make a good son-in-law or a good father-in-law. In short, he’s a man you can do business with.
I mention all this not because it was here that my watch was stolen, but because such has always been my opinion of the town. Actually it’s not even a question of personal gain in this case, since the house or, more accurately, the process of building the house is merely a symbol for something else. If, for example, it were agreed that from this day forth a man’s worth was to be measured by the number of peacocks he had raised, everyone in town would immediately start raising peacocks and would soon be swapping them back and forth, feeling their tails and boasting about the size of their eggs. Man’s passion for self-esteem can take the strangest and most varied forms. The form itself is immaterial as long as it catches the eye and represents a sufficiently large investment of time and energy.
Passing through a creaking wicket gate, we entered the well-kept grounds of the local police station. A spreading mulberry tree stood in the center of the luxuriant green lawn, and placed conveniently under its leafy branches were some benches and a solidly anchored table for backgammon or dominoes. Between the lawn and the picket fence there was a row of young apple trees heavily laden with fruit. This was the most hospitable-looking police yard I had ever laid eyes on, and I could easily imagine the police chief sitting here with a flock of penitent criminals, putting up preserves on a fall afternoon.
We followed the well-beaten path which led up to the building and went inside. A policeman was sitting behind a wooden partition in the middle of the room, and right by the door a young couple was seated on a long bench. The girl reminded me of the girl I had seen the night before, except that now she wasn’t wearing a sweater. I gave her a questioning look.
One of my police escorts left the room. The other took a seat on the bench, and turning to me, he said:
“Well, go ahead and file your complaint.”
Then he took a good look at the young couple on the bench and glanced questioningly at the policeman seated behind the partition.
“Picked up wandering around without any papers,” the latter explained matter-of-factly.
The girl had turned her head and was now gazing in the direction of the open door. Once again she reminded me of the girl from the night before.
“Where’s your sweater?” I asked her, suddenly overcome by a desire to play detective.
“What are you talking about—what sweater?” she said with a haughty glance in my direction and then turned her head once again toward the door. The boy looked up in alarm.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled, “I mistook you for someone else.”
From her voice I realized that she was not the same girl. I have a bad memory for faces, but voices I remember very well. Taking out my notebook, I walked over to the partition and began thinking about how I would phrase my complaint.
“You can’t use that for an official statement,” said the policeman behind the partition as he handed me a clean sheet of paper.
I gave in, now realizing once and for all that my notebook was not destined for use on this assignment.
“Please let us go, comrade policeman,” the boy pleaded dully. “You’d think we’d committed a crime or something.”
“As soon as the captain arrives, he’ll decide what to do,” replied the policeman from behind the partition. His tone was clearly conciliatory, and the boy said nothing more. Through the open windows one could hear the distant scraping of the caretaker’s broom and the chirping of birds.
“How much longer do you expect us to wait?” the girl asked angrily. “We’ve already been sitting here for an hour and a half.”
“Now don’t get smart, young lady,” said the policeman without raising his voice or changing his position. He sat there at his table, with his cheek resting on one hand and a sad, sleepy look on his face. “The captain’s out making his rounds. There’s been a rape case,” he added after a moment’s reflection, “and here you are wandering around without any papers.”
“Now that’s what I call a brilliant association!” the girl retorted sarcastically.
“You’re too smart for your own good,” dolefully remarked the policeman without raising his voice. And he continued to sit there as immobile as ever, with the same sleepy look on his face.
When I had finished writing up my complaint, the policeman indicated with a glance that I should leave it on the table. Just at that moment the door opened at the back of the partitioned-off area and a tall, thickset man with slightly stooped shoulders entered the room, thoughtfully stroking his broad, handsome face with one hand.
“Well, here’s the captain,” the policeman exclaimed joyfully, now jumping up and yielding his seat to the captain.
“I wonder why we didn’t hear his car pulling up,” the girl remarked impudently and then turned once again toward the door.
“What’s the trouble?” asked the captain, taking his seat and gazing somberly at the girl.
“They were picked up wandering around without any papers,” reported the policeman in a loud, clear voice. “They were spotted on the shore at about four a.m. She claims that she didn’t want to wake up her landlady, and her escort’s staying at the other end of town.”
“Comrade captain,” the boy was about to begin, but the captain cut him short:
“You run and get your passport, and she can stay here as security.”
“But there aren’t any buses at this hour,” the boy objected.
“Never mind, young man, run along,” said the captain, now turning with a questioning glance toward me.
“Here’s his statement, comrade captain,” said the policeman, pointing to the table. The captain leaned forward and began reading my statement. The policeman who had escorted me to the station now stood at attention, ready to fill him in with any necessary details.
“Now don’t get upset, I’ll be right back,” the boy whispered to the girl and quickly departed. The girl made no reply.
Through the open windows came the scraping sound of the caretaker’s steadily approaching broom and the irrepressible warbling of birds. The captain’s lips moved slightly
and, looking up at me, he asked:
“Do you have any identification?”
“It was war booty,” I replied, assuming that he was referring to the watch, “a gift from my uncle.”
“What’s your uncle got to do with it?” The captain asked with a frown. “Show me your passport.”
“Oh,” I said, handing him my passport.
“He was sleeping down by the shore,” interjected my policeman, “and after we woke him up, he said his watch had been stolen.”
“How strange,” said the captain, gazing at me with curiosity. “According to your statement you were waiting for the Zugdidi bus, and yet they found you sleeping down by the shore. Don’t tell me you were expecting the bus to come out of the sea?!”
The two policemen chuckled.
“The Zugdidi bus comes by at eleven in the evening, and we found him on the shore at six a.m.,” observed my escort, as if presenting some new challenge with which to test the captain’s ingenuity.
“Perhaps you were waiting for the return bus?” the captain suddenly surmised. One could tell that he was trying his best to make sense of my story and was suffering in the process.
“Yes, the return bus,” I said for no good reason, except perhaps to put the captain’s mind at rest.
“Well, that’s another matter,” said the captain and then, holding out my passport, he asked: “Where do you work?”
“I’m a reporter for Red Subtropics,” I replied, extending my hand to take the passport.
“Then why weren’t you staying at the hotel?” asked the captain. And now puzzled anew, he took back my passport and opened it for a second look. “This sort of thing makes a bad impression,” he commented, and clicking his tongue, he added: “What am I going to tell Avtandil Avtandilovich?”
Good Lord, I reflected, they all seem to know each other around here!
“Why do you have to tell him anything?” I asked. That was all I needed—to have the editor find out about my stolen watch! There would be all sorts of questions, suspicions—and in general, who wants anything to do with people who get into trouble?
The Goatibex Constellation Page 10
