“This does create a bad impression,” the captain declared thoughtfully. “You spend the night in our town and you lose your watch… What is Avtandil Avtandilovich going to think?”
“You know,” I said, “I think I may have left it at Walnut Springs.”
“Walnut Springs?” the captain gave a start.
“Yes, I was there on an assignment in connection with the goatibex.”
“Oh, I’ve heard, an interesting undertaking,” observed the captain, now listening attentively.
“I think I may have left my watch there.”
“Then we’ll call them up right away,” said the captain, his face brightening as he reached for the receiver.
“No, don’t bother!” I cried, taking a step forward.
“Aha,” said the captain, slapping his hands together. His face lit up with satisfaction at his own clever surmise. “Now I understand, they were making toasts…”
“Yes, that’s it, making toasts,” I confirmed.
“By the way, Vakhtang Bochua was out there too,” interjected my escort.
“So they were making toasts,” the captain went on with his explanation. “You ended up presenting your watch to one of them, and they presented you with a cigarette case,” he concluded, now beaming triumphantly in my direction.
“What cigarette case?” I asked, failing at first to see the connection.
“One of those silver ones,” the captain cheerfully elaborated.
“No, they didn’t give me anything in return,” I said.
“But they must have,” said the captain, amiably contradicting me. “Or at least they must have promised to give you something later on… But why are you standing? Have a seat.” And taking a package of Kazbek cigarettes from his pocket, he asked: “Do you smoke?”
“Yes. Thank you,” I replied, taking a cigarette. The captain gave me a light and then lit up his own cigarette.
At this point the policeman who had been standing behind the partition went out through the back door. My policeman continued to stand in place, though now partially supporting himself against the window sill.
“Last year I happened to be in Svanetia,”* said the captain, directing a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “The local police had a dinner in my honor; we ate and drank and afterwards they presented me with a deer. Now what on earth would I want with a live deer? On the other hand, to refuse it would have been considered a mortal insult. So I accepted their gift, promising to send them two cases of cartridges in return. And I did send them, as soon as I got home.”
“And you took the deer?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered. “I kept it at home for a week, and then my son took it off with him to school. ‘We’re going to make it into a goatibex,’ he tells me. ‘Fine,’ I tell him, ‘do whatever you want with it. There’s no way we can keep it at home.’ ”
The captain took a long draw on his cigarette. Good-natured complacency was written all over his broad, handsome face. I was glad that he had forgotten about my watch; I would have had a rough time explaining what had happened to Avtandil Avtandilovich.
“The Svans are excellent cooks,” the captain continued to reminisce, “but that arrack spoils everything.” He looked at me and frowned. “A thoroughly distasteful drink—although I suppose,” he added in a conciliatory tone, “it’s all a matter of what you’re used to.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” I replied.
“But that Isabella they have at Walnut Springs is as strong as bull’s blood…”
Yours isn’t bad either, I thought to myself.
Suddenly beginning to chuckle, the captain asked: “Did you get to meet that sleepy agronomist?”
“Yes, I did,” I replied. “Why does he sleep so much?”
“He’s quite a character,” said the captain, chuckling again. “It’s some sort of sickness he has. But despite all his sleeping, he’s still our number-one tea specialist. There’s no one in the district who can match him.”
“Yes, their tea fields are really magnificent,” I said, suddenly calling to mind the picture of Gogola bending over the green, luxuriant bushes.
“Last year there was a bit of excitement out at their kolkhoz. Someone walked off with their safe.”
“Their safe?”
“Yes, their safe,” said the captain. “I went out there myself to investigate. Someone managed to steal it, but they couldn’t get it open. The sleepy agronomist helped us find it. He’s a very smart fellow… But you know, Isabella really is a treacherous wine,” the captain continued, not wanting to digress too far from his main topic. “You gulp it down like lemonade and only later does it begin to hit you.”
He looked at me, then at the girl, and said to her:
“You’re free to go, young lady, only next time see that you don’t stay out so late.”
“I’ll wait for my friend here,” she said, turning her head brusquely toward the door.
“You can wait for him out in the yard. It’s a nice morning—the birds are singing,” said the captain and then added sternly: “And in the future don’t let yourself be picked up by casual strangers. All right now, get along with you!”
The girl went out without saying a word. The captain nodded in her direction and remarked:
“They’re offended when we take precautionary measures, and yet later on they themselves come running in to complain: ‘He raped me! He robbed me!’ Who he is or where he’s staying, she doesn’t have the slightest idea. And as to how she happened to be with him, she won’t say a word.” The captain turned to me with an offended look in his eyes.
“I suppose they’re too young to know any better,” I said.
“That’s just the point,” said the captain.
Out in the yard the birds were chirping away for all they were worth, and now the scraping of the caretaker’s broom could be heard right outside the front entrance.
“Kostya,” said the captain, turning to my escort, “go on out and water the front lawn and the sidewalk before it gets hot.”
“Yes, sir! Comrade captain,” replied the policeman.
“And tomorrow you’ll go to the circus,” added the captain, his words bringing the policeman to a sudden halt by the door.
“Yes, sir! Comrade captain,” the policeman repeated joyfully and then walked out.
“What circus?” I asked without stopping to reflect that this might be some sort of code word and, if so, my question would not be appreciated.
“The circus has arrived in town,” replied the captain matter-of-factly, “and we’re rewarding some of our best men by assigning them guard duty there.”
“Aha,” I nodded in comprehension.
“He’s a good man—smart and hard-working,” said the captain, glancing in the direction of the door. “Twenty-three years of service and now he’s even building himself a house.”
“Well, I guess I’ll be on my way too,” I said, rising.
“What’s your hurry?” asked the captain, and glancing down at his watch he declared: “The Zugdidi bus isn’t due in for another hour and forty-three minutes.”
I sat down again.
“But do you know what goes best with Isabella?” he asked, glancing at me with good-natured cunning.
“Shish kebab,” I replied.
“I beg your pardon, dear comrade,” objected the captain with obvious satisfaction. And now, having apparently concluded that I was an amateur who would have to be taken thoroughly in hand, he came out from behind his partition.
“Isabella should be served with stew meat and adzhika.* Especially meat from the loin—that’s where you get your chops,” he explained, slapping himself on the back. “But the leg isn’t bad either,” he added, hesitating somewhat, as if he wanted above all to be fair or in any case did not want to be accused of any culinary bias.
“Meat served with adzhika makes you thirsty,” said the captain, now halting in front of me. “You may not even feel like drinking any more, but your body
demands it!” he added, joyfully flinging up his hands as if to say: there’s nothing you can do about it, once your body demands it.
The captain resumed his pacing.
“But white wine doesn’t go well with meat,” he suddenly cautioned, halting and looking anxiously in my direction.
“What does it go well with?” I asked eagerly.
“With fish,” he replied, “Goatfish,” the captain bent back one finger, “horse mackerel, mullet, or a fresh-water fish—mountain trout, for instance. Mm-m-m,” murmured the captain with satisfaction. “And all you need with the fish is damson sauce and some greens—nothing else.” And grimacing at the mere thought of any other side dishes or appetizers, he mentally brushed them aside with an energetic sweep of his hand.
The captain and I continued talking for a while until finally, when I was convinced that his thoughts had wandered sufficiently far afield from my watch, I shook his hand and said good-bye. But just as I was heading for the door, he called out:
“Here’s your statement; take it with you.”
He handed me the statement, and then apparently noticing that I didn’t enjoy being reminded of my missing watch, he added:
“Don’t worry, nothing’s going to come of it. The authorities regard gift giving as a harmless local custom. It’s quite acceptable in this part of the country.”
After this short legal briefing I said good-bye to him once again and finally left the building.
The freshly watered front lawn of the police station lay sparkling under the still cool morning sun. The policeman was energetically applying his hose to a young apple tree. Whenever a jet of water hit the tree, there would be a hollow rustling sound and a mighty quiver of gratitude would pass through its leaves and branches. Then from the still trembling leaves the water would come flying forth in a rainbow-colored spray.
The girl was sitting under the mulberry tree, keeping an eye on the front gate as she awaited her sweetheart’s return.
Out on the street I tore up my statement and threw it into a refuse container. I just barely made my bus and spent the entire return trip outlining my future article on the goatibex of Walnut Springs. It occurred to me that my grief over the loss of my watch would inject a note of pathos into my article, and this thought somewhat consoled me.
VI
I decided to tell everyone at home that my watch had been stolen from my hotel room. My uncle took the news very badly—which rather surprised me since I had no idea he would still remember the present he had given me so many years ago. I should add that my uncle was reputed to be one of the city’s best taxi drivers, and about two days after my return he pulled up in front of our building with a cab full of passengers. Leaving his passengers in the cab, he came inside and began questioning me:
“Well, how did it happen?”
“I was sharing a room with someone and when I got up in the morning, both the man and my watch were gone,” I explained sadly.
“Well, what did he look like?” asked my uncle, already thirsting for vengeance.
“He was asleep when I came in,” I replied.
“Don’t be silly,” said my uncle. “Obviously he was only pretending to be asleep. Well, what happened after that?”
“When I got up in the morning, both the man and the watch were gone…”
“You’ve already said that,” he broke in impatiently. “Do you really mean to tell me that you didn’t notice what he looked like?”
“He was under the blanket,” I said firmly, not wanting to give him anything more concrete to go on. Knowing how determined my uncle could be, I was afraid that he might start rounding up all his more suspicious-looking passengers and herd them into the newspaper office for me to have a look at.
“He had his head under the blanket in this heat?!” my uncle exclaimed. “Why that alone should have made any intelligent person suspicious. Well, and where was your watch?”
“It was lying under my pillow,” I said firmly.
“How come?” he asked, frowning. “Why would you bother to take it off when it’s unbreakable?”
I didn’t take it off, I was about to object, but I caught myself just in time.
“Well, what did the hotel management say?” asked my uncle, not letting up on his questions.
“They said I should have turned it over to them for safekeeping,” I replied, remembering that such was the procedure at the public baths.
Sooner or later he would probably have tripped me up with his questions, had it not been for his abandoned passengers, who now began raising a fuss out front. First they blew the horn, then they started banging on our apartment window.
“The next time I pass through that town I’m going to stop off at that hotel and give ‘em hell!” was my uncle’s parting shot as he went dashing out onto the street.
He was so grief stricken over the loss of my watch that I began to wonder if he hadn’t perhaps been planning to reclaim it at some future date. But then it occurred to me that the loss of a gift must inevitably strike the gift giver as a form of ingratitude. For when a person gives us something, he is making a deposit, as in a savings account, from which he hopes to collect a small but fixed rate of interest. And when the gift is lost, he feels doubly cheated: for not only has he lost his original deposit, but his small percentage of gratitude as well.
Fortunately, an opportunity to pass through the ill-fated town did not immediately present itself and my uncle gradually calmed down. But I seem to be jumping ahead, and I need first to go back and describe the day of my return from Walnut Springs. True, this day has little to recommend it, but describe it I must if my story is to be complete.
The clock on the municipal tower was just striking nine when I entered my office. Platon Samsonovich was already at his desk and as he looked up, apparently startled to see me, his freshly starched shirt crackled, as if galvanized by the mere touch of his wizened old body.
I could tell that he had been struck by some new inspiration, since his flights of creativity were always celebrated by the donning of a clean shirt. Thus, although it might be objected from the standpoint of personal hygiene that Platon Samsonovich changed his shirts rather infrequently, in terms of intellectual creativity he was changing them constantly. Indeed, his mind seemed always to be operating at fever pitch.
“You can congratulate me,” he exclaimed. “I’ve come up with a new idea!”
“What sort of idea?” I asked.
“Just listen and I’ll tell you,” he replied, fairly beaming. He reached for a piece of paper and began writing down some formula, explaining it as he went along. “I propose that we crossbreed the goatibex with the long-haired Tadzhik goat, thus obtaining:
Of course the jumping ability of the second-generation goatibex will be somewhat diminished, but he’ll have twice as much hair. Pretty good, eh what?” exclaimed Platon Samsonovich, now discarding his pencil and gazing up at me with sparkling eyes.
“Where are you going to get a Tadzhik goat?” I asked, vaguely aware of some hidden danger lurking in his eyes.
“I’ll go to the agricultural administration office,” he said, rising. “They ought to support our efforts. Oh, how was your trip?”
“Okay,” I replied, sensing that his thoughts were elsewhere and that he was inquiring merely out of politeness.
He dashed to the door, but then suddenly returned to his desk, picked up the piece of paper on which he had written his new formula, and put it away in the top desk drawer. He locked the drawer with a key, jiggled it just to make sure, and then put the key in his pocket.
“Keep quiet about this for the time being,” he instructed me in parting, “and write up your article. We’ll submit it right away.”
There was a note of superiority in his voice—the natural superiority of the creative engineer over the ordinary technician. I sat down at my desk, took out my pen and reached for some clean sheets of paper. But I couldn’t think where to begin, and taking out my notebook, I started le
afing through it, even though I knew there was nothing in it.
Anyone reading our paper would have supposed that all but the most ideologically backward collective farmers were busy raising goatibexes and nothing else. In the village of Walnut Springs, however, this was not quite the case. Realizing that it would be naive to make any direct attack on the goatibex, I decided to adopt Illarion Maksimovich’s approach—that is, to support the project as a whole, while making considerable allowance for local conditions. I was still deliberating on how to begin, when the door opened and a girl from the mail and supply room walked in.
“You have a letter,” she said, eyeing me strangely.
I took the letter and opened it. The girl remained standing in the doorway and only when I looked up at her, did she reluctantly leave the room, closing the door slowly behind her.
The letter was from Russia, from a former colleague at the youth newspaper. Word had reached them of our interesting undertaking, and the editor wanted me to write an article for them on the goatibex. For although I had left them, they still thought of me as one of their own—one whom they had nurtured and helped on his way. Such were the editor’s exact words, cited ironically by my friend. It was only in his private correspondence, I might add, that my friend ever indulged in irony.
The way the editor put it, it would appear that I had been nurtured by the youth newspaper and then left it of my own accord.
Nor was the remaining portion of the letter any more to my liking. Here my friend reported that he sometimes saw her in the company of the major. There were rumors that they had gotten married—but this wasn’t yet definite, he added in closing.
Of course it’s definite, I thought to myself as I put down the letter. I’ve noticed that people sometimes try to soften unpleasant news, not so much out of sympathy for us, the recipients, as out of sympathy for themselves. For who wants to have to utter the words appropriate to such occasions, to exhort us to keep a stiff upper lip or, even worse, to face up to reality?
I don’t want to exaggerate. The old wound didn’t reopen, nor was I about to slit my throat. In fact, all that I experienced was a dull ache, the sort of ache which rheumatics feel at the onset of bad weather. I decided, however, to put even this suffering to good use and to let it, along with my missing watch, contribute to the pathos of my article.
The Goatibex Constellation Page 11
