The Goatibex Constellation

by Fazil Iskander

  Do you really believe that the mannequin’s only function is to model a suit of clothes? Don’t be naive! The mannequin wants to prove to us that it is possible to be a human being even when lacking a soul. Moreover, he urges us to follow his example. And by always modeling the latest fashions, he seems cynically to suggest that it is he who points the way to the future.

  But we can’t accept his future because we want our own, human future.

  When I gaze into a dog’s eyes, I find something resembling a human look, and I respect this look. I see the millions of years that separate us, but at the same time I see that the dog has a soul, a certain shared humanity. The dog seems to sense this common humanity and to respond to it. Undoubtedly it is the dog’s ­capacity to respond to us as humans which evokes a similar responsiveness in us and, in fact, strengthens our own humanity. For when a dog barks joyfully at our approach, we instinctively respond and our hand reaches out to pat him.

  I admire the parrot’s talents—its vocal cords and its mechanical memory—but the parrot is far behind the dog. The parrot is interesting and exotic, but the dog is beautiful.

  We are often willing to use an imprecise word to designate the essence of something. But even if we manage to be precise in our designation, the essence itself may change, while its designation, the word, still continues to be used, preserving not the essence, but only its outward form, just as an empty pod preserves the rounded contours of the long-discarded peas. Errors of terminology or of perception—and usually we are guilty of both—lead in the end to a confusion of concepts. And in the last analysis, a confusion of concepts is but a natural outgrowth of our indifference—our insufficient concern for the essence of the concept, or insufficient love. For is not love the highest form of concern?

  Sooner or later we are forced to pay for our indifference. And only then, still nursing our bruises, do we begin to call things by their right names. In the meantime we continue to confuse parrots with prophets simply because we have given little or no thought to the subject of man and the source of his greatness. Why—because we have little respect for ourselves, for those around us, and for life itself.

  About three days later I happened to be eating lunch in the same outdoor café, when who should appear but Vakhtang Bochua. Dressed in a spanking-white suit and as rosy-cheeked as ever, he was a radiant vision of pink and white. Accompanying him were an elderly gentleman and a woman who was dressed with the gay abandon of a fortuneteller. Catching sight of me, Vakhtang halted.

  “How did the lecture go?” I asked.

  “The collective farmers were moved to tears,” he replied with a smile. “Oh, and by the way, you owe me a bottle of champagne.”

  “What for?” I asked.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard!” he exclaimed in surprise. “It was yours truly who dragged you out from under the wheels of history. Avtandil Avtandilovich wanted to bid you farewell, but I told him it would be over my dead body.”

  “What was his reaction to that?” I asked.

  “He accepted the fact that this was one place where the wheels of history were going to get stuck,” said Vakhtang. Then, giving his mighty stomach a loving pat, he added: “You’ve been granted a stay of execution.”

  He stood before me ruddy, portly, smiling and invulnerable. He himself seemed rather amazed at his own boundless capacities and now was eagerly trying to think of something else with which to impress me.

  “Do you know who they are?” he asked with a slight nod in the direction of his companions. The latter had already taken a table and from their seats were casting fond glances at Vakhtang.

  “No,” I answered.

  “My friend, Professor (he gave his name), the world-famous mineralogist, and with him his favorite student. By the way, he’s given me a collection of Caucasian minerals.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “I don’t know myself,” replied Vakhtang, throwing up his hands in mock despair. “I guess he just likes me. I’ve been taking him around to different historical sites.”

  “Vakhta-a-ang, we miss you,” the favorite student drawled capriciously.

  Even the professor was gazing in our direction with an affectionate smile. He was casually garbed in linen trousers and sandals, and his long legs protruded from under the table like those of some lanky, absentminded adolescent.

  “And that’s not all,” said Vakhtang, still smiling. And shrugging his shoulders as if to express his amazement at the vagaries of human behavior, he added: “He’s even promised to leave me his library.”

  “Well, see that you don’t do him in for the sake of his wealth,” I said.

  “What do you mean!” protested Vakhtang with a smile. “Why, he means as much to me as my own father…”

  “Greetings to our golden youth,” interjected Solomon Markovich, suddenly appearing from out of nowhere. He stood before us—small, wrinkled and alcoholically preserved for life in his quiet but persistent sorrow.

  “My dear Vakhtang,” said Solomon Markovich, “I’m an old man. I don’t need a hundred grams of vodka; a mere fifty will do.”

  “That you shall have,” said Vakhtang, and taking Solomon Markovich’s arm in lordly fashion, he directed him to his table.

  “And here is one more of our archaeological rarities,” said Vakhtang by way of introduction. And pulling up a chair for him, he added: “Please welcome the wise Solomon Markovich.”

  Solomon Markovich sat down and in a quiet and dignified manner began:

  “Yesterday I was reading a certain book; it’s called the Bible.”

  He always began this way, and it now occurred to me that his approach to life was a good illustration of my theory of failure and how to make the most of it. For from the great failure of his life he had extracted one small but enduring triumph: the privilege of daily libations at others’ expense.

  VII

  I had been quietly at work in the cultural section for about a month. The furor in connection with the goatibex campaign had not yet died down, but by now it no longer bothered me. I had gotten used to it, just as one gets used to the sound of waves pounding against the shore.

  The high-level regional conference to promote the goatibexation of our Republic’s kolkhozes had already taken place, and although a few critical voices had been raised against the measure, they were quickly drowned out by the clamor of the triumphant majority.

  Our paper’s contest for the best literary piece on the goatibex was won by an accountant from the Lykhninsky Kolkhoz. He had written a satiric ode entitled “The Goatibex and the Hardheaded Chairman,” the last stanza of which read as follows:

  I take up my pen in praise of the goatibex,

  For despite what the hardheaded chairman may say,

  The animal’s meat and its beautiful horns

  Have made their mark and are here to stay.

  To appreciate the biting effect of this stanza one needs to know something of the poem’s background. For the poem was actually based on a real-life incident.

  On a certain kolkhoz a goatibex had almost gored the kolkhoz chairman’s small son. According to Platon Samsonovich, the little boy had frequently teased and made fun of the defenseless animal, taking advantage of his father’s position to do so. The goatibex had given the child a good scare, it seemed, but had not inflicted any serious injuries. Nonetheless, acting at the insistence of his infuriated wife, the chairman had ordered the local blacksmith to saw off the animal’s horns.

  It was at this point that the secretary of the village soviet had written in to us. Platon Samsonovich was outraged by the incident and the very next day went out to the kolkhoz to see for himself what had happened.

  It turned out that everything the secretary had written was true. Platon Samsonovich even brought back with him one of the goatibex’s horns (the other, as the kolkhoz chairman was embarrassed to admit, had been dragged off somewhere by a dog). Every one of our paper’s employees came trooping into Platon Samsonovich�
��s office to see the famous goatibex horn; even the phlegmatic typesetter made a special trip up from his presses to have a look at it. Platon Samsonovich was delighted to be able to show it off and, in doing so, he would direct everyone’s attention to the traces left by the blacksmith’s barbarous saw. The horn was brown and heavy like the tusk of some antediluvian rhinoceros, and the head of the information section, who also happened to be the chairman of the paper’s trade union committee, suggested that we turn it over to a local craftsman and have it converted into a drinking horn for use at staff picnics.

  “It could easily hold three liters,” he said, scrutinizing the horn from every angle. His suggestion, however, was indignantly rejected by Platon Samsonovich.

  In connection with this same incident Platon Samsonovich wrote a satirical sketch entitled “The Goatibex and the Hard­headed Chairman,” in which he gave the kolkhoz chairman a merciless going-over. He even suggested to the editor that his sketch be supplemented by a photograph of the dishonored animal, but after some reflection Avtandil Avtandilovich decided to let it go with the sketch.

  “They might take it the wrong way,” he replied, though exactly who the “they” was, he did not bother to explain.

  So it was that when the Lykhninsky accountant submitted his poem of the same title, it received Platon Samsonovich’s full backing and was virtually assured of first place, since Platon Samsonovich was the most influential member of our contest jury and its only technical expert. Nor did the editor have anything against the poem; he merely observed that the last two lines would have to be revised in such a way as to pay tribute to the goatibex’s wool along with his meat and horns.

  “We don’t yet know which is going to be more important for the economy,” he said and then suddenly came out with his own improved version of the last stanza, which was now amended to read as follows:

  I take up my pen in praise of the goatibex,

  For despite what the hardheaded chairman may say,

  The animal’s meat, its wool and its horns

  Have made their mark and are here to stay.

  The author had no objection to Avtandil Avtandilovich’s slight revision and shortly afterward the poem was even set to music. The tune was a popular one, or at least so one would judge from the fact that it was frequently played on the radio. It was also sung on stage by an amateur choir from the tobacco factory—the choir consisting in this case of members of the Municipal Opera and Choral Society. Scarcely recognizable in their folk dress, the latter sang under the direction of the now rehabilitated Pata Pataraya, a performer of Caucasian dances who had been popular in the thirties.

  As for the horn, it remained in Platon Samsonovich’s office, surmounting a pile of unfiled papers as a visible reminder of the need for vigilance.

  Most of my time in the cultural section was spent processing our readers’ letters (usually complaints about the poor performance of their village social clubs) and their attempts at verse.

  The verses were devoted largely to the goatibex and, strangely enough, the majority of them came pouring in after the contest was already over. Many of them even bore the heading: “Entered for the next contest,” though in fact no such contest had ever been announced.

  Some contributors, and especially the elderly and the retired, would let it be known in an accompanying letter that they had been well provided for by the State and hence had no need for any prize money. If, however, they would go on to add, there were some young staff writer who would be willing to make whatever corrections were necessary for the poem to be printed, then his modest efforts would not go unrewarded; for all forms of labor should be remunerated, etc., etc. At first I was annoyed by these references to a young staff writer, but eventually I got used to them and no longer paid any attention.

  In my initial replies to these contributors I politely hinted that creative writing requires a certain amount of talent and even some familiarity with literature. After a few days, however, Avtandil Avtandilovich called me into his office and informed me that in the future I would have to be more tolerant. Pointing to a particularly candid section of one of my more recent replies, which he had underlined with red pencil, he said:

  “You can’t tell a person that he hasn’t any talent. It’s our responsibility to educate people’s talents and to encourage their creative efforts, especially those of ordinary workers.”

  By this time I had managed to discover Avtandil Avtandi­lovich’s one great weakness. This powerful individual would freeze like a rabbit when under the hypnotic spell of a cliché. And if at the moment he happened to be promoting some new political cliché, it was literally impossible to win him over by logical argument. Instead, one had to fire up his enthusiasm with some other cliché—one that was even more up to date than the first. Thus, when he began talking about the education of talent and the creative efforts of ordinary workers, I was immediately reminded of the old cliché about not flirting with the masses. I didn’t have the courage to quote it, however, nor did it quite seem to fit this particular situation.

  After my meeting with the editor I began replying to our contributors with even less enthusiasm than before. Clenching my teeth and fuming with rage, I would cynically advise them to study the classics—and especially Mayakovsky.*

  During this same period I had several out-of-town assignments, and each time I returned with an article, I knew in advance which sections would be to the editor’s liking and which would not. And for those sections which were destined for deletion I did what little I could, making them stylistically as attractive as possible.

  Things were proceeding pretty much as usual when something occurred which, while in no way related to the goatibex, was nonetheless to have a certain influence on my life.

  One evening I was sitting with some friends on top of the sea wall, gazing down at the double stream of smartly dressed people who kept passing one another on the street below. And perhaps because of their constant movement—their jostling and intermingling—there was an air of excitement about them which conveyed itself to us.

  Black pants, pointed shoes, a dazzling white shirt, and a pack of Kazbek cigarettes stuck in one’s belt like a cowboy pistol—such was the summer attire of our southern Don Juans.

  The evening promised nothing special, nor were we expecting anything out of the ordinary. We were simply sitting and enjoying ourselves, gazing idly at the passers-by and making the extravagant comments men usually make on such occasions.

  Then she appeared—a young girl in the company of two elderly ladies. As they passed right beside us on the sidewalk, I managed to catch a glimpse of her charming profile and luxuriant, golden hair. She was a most attractive girl. Only her waist struck me as overly slender; there was something old-fashioned about it—something from the era of stays and corsets.

  She was politely and submissively listening to what one of the ladies was saying. But I didn’t have much faith in her submissiveness; it seemed to me that a girl with such full lips was not likely to be very submissive.

  I followed her with my eyes until she and her companions had disappeared from sight. Fortunately, my friends hadn’t noticed her. They had been so absorbed in watching the street below that they had failed to see what was right under their noses. I continued to sit there for a while, but my friends’ conversation no longer reached me. I was so immersed in my thoughts that their voices seemed to be coming from far away, as if across a broad expanse of water.

  I couldn’t get the girl out of my mind. I wanted to catch sight of her again and as quickly as possible. Not that I feared any competition from our local dandies. With their languorous gait and silly cartridge belts stuffed full of half-empty cigarette packs, they were simply not her type—of that I was sure. No, in this case the challenge lay elsewhere. And what a pleasant challenge it would be to deliver her from under the overly protective wing of two elderly ladies.

  Without further delay I took leave of my friends and started off down the street. The
chances of finding her in such a mass of humanity seemed very remote, but by now she was fixed in my mind. And once a person is fixed in your mind, however slightly, you can be sure that somehow, somewhere your paths will cross. Well, I thought to myself, if this is the way I feel about this girl, I must finally be cured of the old one. The major had proved a good doctor, and now in my willingness to be afflicted once again I saw the sure sign of my recovery. I began to look for her.

  Although I knew that I would eventually find her, I hadn’t the slightest idea what would happen after that. For the moment, I simply wanted to convince myself that she had in fact appeared before me and was not merely a figment of my imagination.

  Suddenly, as I was approaching the small pier used by our local fishing and excursion boats, I saw her in the distance, leaning against the guardrail and gazing into the water. She was wearing a simple white blouse and a very full skirt which made her tiny waist look even tinier. She had the sort of figure which can be cut with a pair of scissors, as we say in Abkhazian.

  Sitting on a bench nearby were the two ladies with whom she had walked so submissively along the embankment.

  In connection with these ladies I should point out that many people have a distorted view of our region and of the Caucasus in general. Most of the rumors about girls being kidnapped, carried off into the mountains, etc., etc., are sheer nonsense. Nonetheless they continue to circulate and many people believe them.

  Be that as it may, the girl’s lady companions were now sitting so close to her that if any abduction had been attempted, they could easily have reached out and grabbed the edge of her skirt without even rising from their seats. This same skirt was now flapping widely and freely around her legs like the flag of some independent but thoroughly reliable power.

  Still debating what to do next, I made my way to the end of the pier. Then as I turned around and started back, I decided to throw caution to the winds and come to a halt beside her. In so doing, I would take advantage of the one tactical error committed by her escort: her seaward flank had been left unguarded.