The Goatibex Constellation

by Fazil Iskander

  Later that evening I wandered around the city, hoping that I might run into her. I was terribly eager to see her again, although at the same time I was beginning to dread our next encounter. Several times that evening I felt an abrupt sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach—the same sensation one feels in an airplane when it hits an air pocket—but each time it turned out to be a false alarm; it was not she but someone else.

  I had just wandered onto the small pier used by our local boats when suddenly I saw here. Somehow it had never occurred to me to look for her here; and yet here she was, standing in almost the very same spot where she had stood the evening before.

  My first impulse was to run away, and it was only with great difficulty that I managed to resist the temptation. I started walking toward her along the well-lighted pier, but for some reason she didn’t see me. She seemed to be buried in thought, or perhaps she simply didn’t want to see me. In any case, I had just drawn level with her and was about to turn back, when suddenly our eyes met and she smiled—or more accurately, her face lit up with joy. And like some sudden gust of wind, her radiant smile swept away all the tension and fatigue I had accumulated in the course of the day.

  It is not so often that people are genuinely happy to see us, or at least not so often as we would like. And even when a person is happy to see us, he usually tries to hide the fact, either because he’s afraid of appearing overly sentimental or else of offending the others present, at whose appearance he cannot rejoice. Thus it is that sometimes we’re not really sure whether a person is happy to see us or not.

  An excursion boat suddenly pulled up to the pier, and as if by some previous agreement we got on board. I don’t remember what we talked about; I only remember that we stood leaning against the rail, gazing down at the water, just as the night before we had stood by the guardrail on the pier. Only now it seemed as if the pier had separated from the shore and was speeding into the open sea. I gazed down at her face and was strangely moved by the expression of tenderness which filtered through her tanned and slightly peeling skin.

  Later on she wanted something to drink and we made our way along the dark and narrow passageway to the stern, where the snackbar was located.

  We ordered some lemonade which turned out to be cold and bubbly like champagne. It had been a long time since I had drunk lemonade, and it suddenly occurred to me that no champagne had ever tasted as good as this lemonade.

  And later on in life, when on several occasions I happened to drink champagne that was as flat and tasteless as weak lemonade, I would think back to this particular evening and reflect on the great if hardheaded wisdom of nature, which strives in everything for balance and equilibrium. For there is no such thing in this world as getting something for nothing; and if on occasion you are lucky enough to drink lemonade which reminds you of champagne, then sooner or later you will have to drink ­champagne which reminds you of lemonade.

  Such is the sad but apparently inevitable logic of life. And perhaps even sadder than the logic itself is the fact that it is inevitable.

  VIII

  They say that even a stone can be worn away by drops of water. How much more so, by Platon Samsonovich! And already the agricultural administration office had agreed to set aside the necessary funds for the purchase of some Tadzhik goats; and already Platon Samsonovich—unwilling to let things run their official course—had sent off a letter to our Tadzhik colleagues, informing them of the upcoming transaction; and already they had written back, letting him know that they had heard about our interesting undertaking and had been planning to acquire some goatibexes of their own; and already they had agreed to an exchange of animals and were planning to carry on their own breeding experiments simultaneously with ours; and already Platon Samsonovich had gone off to the experimental farm to persuade the breeding specialist to accept an allotment of long-haired Tadzhik goats. But just at this point the storm broke. And it broke on the very day when Platon Samsonovich was due back from the experimental farm.

  On this same day one of the Moscow papers printed an article ridiculing certain unwarranted innovations in the agricultural field. Our republic was found to be particularly at fault for what was described as our “ill-advised promotion of the goatibex.” The article even called into question the genius of a certain well-known Moscow scientist whose experiments, it seemed, had proved something less than a complete success.*

  Normally the Moscow papers didn’t arrive until evening or even the next day, but on this occasion we learned of the article’s contents on the same morning it was published. News of this sort always travels quickly.

  I had never seen Avtandil Avtandilovich in such a state. He made several trips to regional Party headquarters in the course of the day and also placed a call to Party headquarters in the district where the experimental farm was located. Here he was informed that Platon Samsonovich had already boarded the bus and was on his way back to the city. The bus was scheduled to arrive at three p.m., and the editor called a general staff meeting for that hour.

  By three o’clock we had all assembled in the editor’s office. Since the bus stop happened to be located right across the street, everyone tried to sit next to the window in order to catch a glimpse of Platon Samsonovich as he got off the bus.

  All of us were in a state bordering on nervous exaltation. Platon Samsonovich was the only one who had wholeheartedly supported the goatibex, and we all knew that the main blow would fall on him. And like a man who has just found some snug, protected spot in which to wait out a storm, each of us experienced a delightful sensation of warmth and well-being.

  Avtandil Avtandilovich sat apart from the rest of us, gazing somewhere off into space. Before him lay a typewritten copy of the article, which he had apparently obtained from the wire service. It was the first time he had ever forgotten to turn off the fan and now, caught in the fast-moving current of air, the pages of the threatening article seemed to quiver and squirm with impatience.

  On two separate occasions our staff humorist got up from his seat and walked past the editor as if to examine the map of Abkhazia which hung on the wall behind his desk. Although we all realized that he would hardly be able to decipher anything on the article’s rippling pages, especially from behind Avtandil Avtandilovich’s back, still we tried to signal him by means of various facial contortions to let us in on the article’s contents. He, in turn, would grimace something to the effect that this was going to be an explosion to end all explosions.

  With a mere nod of the head and without even bothering to turn around, Avtandil Avtandilovich ordered the staff humorist back to his seat.

  Finally the bus drew up to the stop and we all crowded around the window to catch a glimpse of Platon Samsonovich. Having for some reason assumed that he would be the first to get off, we were suddenly taken aback to see a hunting dog leap through the bus door. And following right behind was the hunter himself with a whole bevy of quail hanging from his belt. He walked away from the bus with the cheerfully lumbering gait of a man weighed down with success. I wistfully envied both man and dog.

  And elderly peasant woman with a basket of walnuts got off the bus and started across the street in the middle of the block. A traffic policeman blew his whistle, but instead of stopping, she began to run, spilling her walnuts on the way. She kept on running until she had reached the other side of the street.

  Platon Samsonovich was one of the last to get off. He stood for a moment beside the bus, his jacket hanging limply from one shoulder. Then he suddenly started off in the opposite direction from the newspaper office.

  “He’s walking away,” someone was the first to gasp.

  “What do you mean, walking away?” asked Avtandil Avtandilovich in a threatening tone.

  “I’ll go after him,” cried the humorist, dashing toward the door.

  “Be sure you don’t tell him anything!” the editor shouted after him.

  The rest of us stood by the window, not letting Platon Samsonovich out of
our sight. With his jacket still slung over his shoulder he made his way slowly across the street. Having reached the other side, he suddenly halted by a soda water stand.

  “He’s stopping for soda water,” someone noted in surprise, and we all burst out laughing.

  The humorist came running out to the street and made his way to the nearest intersection. Raising one hand to shade his eyes from the sun, he began looking around in every direction. He didn’t notice Platon Samsonovich, however, because another customer had come up to the stand and temporarily blocked him from view.

  The humorist stood at the corner for several seconds, peering anxiously about. Then, beginning to panic, he dashed across the street and continued walking in the direction of the sea. We watched with eager curiosity as he began to approach the soda water stand. But his gaze was fixed so resolutely ahead that he walked right by without even noticing Platon Samsonovich. Once again we all burst out laughing. But just at this moment Platon Samsonovich must have hailed him, for he wheeled around in surprise. He addressed a few words to Platon Samsonovich and then, motioning in the direction of the office, quickly moved on. Knowing that we were watching him from the window, he undoubtedly felt self-conscious and wanted to have as little contact with Platon Samsonovich as possible.

  In the meantime all of the remaining passengers had left the bus. And now as Platon Samsonovich was making his way back to the office, the bus driver suddenly darted out into the street and began retrieving the walnuts dropped by the peasant woman. When he had gathered up every last one of them, he got back into the bus and drove off.

  After what seemed like an interminable wait, Platon Samsonovich opened the office door and walked in. He greeted us with a nod and sat down. His face wore a look of gloomy concentration, and even from the way he was perched on the edge of his chair, one could tell that he knew everything. Or perhaps I only imagine this in retrospect.

  “Well, did you arrange everything with the breeding specialist?” the editor asked calmly.

  Platon Samsonovich’s tightly pressed lips began to tremble.

  “Avtandil Avtandilovich,” he said in a hollow voice as he rose half stooping from his chair. “I know everything…”

  “Well, who told you, I’d like to know,” asked the editor, now glancing at the humorist. The humorist threw up his hands in protest, then froze in position as if awaiting his fate.

  “They reported it on the radio this morning,” said Platon Samsonovich, continuing to stand in the same half-stooping position.

  “So you’re in the forefront here too,” the editor joked gloomily, trying to hide his disappointment at not being the first to break the news.

  The editor gazed coldly at Platon Samsonovich, and as the seconds passed, it was as if the distance between them had increased to the point where he almost ceased to recognize him. Under the weight of this gaze Platon Samsonovich seemed to grow even more stooped.

  “Have a seat,” said Avtandil Avtandilovich, addressing him in the tone reserved for chance visitors to the office.

  In a clear, ringing voice the editor now began reading the article aloud. And as he read, gradually warming to his subject, he would occasionally cast a glance at Platon Samsonovich.

  At first he seemed to include himself along with the rest of us in his recitation of our common errors and excesses. But as he kept on reading, the note of pathos in his voice continued to rise until suddenly it began to appear as if it were he himself, along with various other comrades, who had detected these errors. And by the time he finished, the tone of his voice had blended so well with that of the article in its rapid transitions from anger to irony that one might have imagined that it was he alone, without the help of any comrades, who had first noticed our mistakes and brought them boldly into the open.

  Finally Avtandil Avtandilovich put down the article and declared the matter open for discussion. He spoke first and, to give him his due, he did criticize himself along with everyone else. For although he had in fact tried to call a halt to the ill-advised promotion of the goatibex (and for this very reason had insisted on printing the livestock expert’s critical commentary, if only in the “Laughing at the Skeptics” column), still, his efforts in this direction had been insufficiently energetic and for this he must take at least part of the blame.

  The humorist, who had been fidgeting impatiently all the while, took the floor immediately after Avtandil Avtandilovich and reminded us that in his satiric sketch about the man who had defaulted in his alimony payments, he too had tried to make a veiled criticism of the ill-advised promotion of the goatibex. But not only had Platon Samsonovich ignored his criticism—he had even tried to malign him.

  “Malign you?” suddenly exclaimed Platon Samsonovich, gazing gloomily at the humorist.

  “Yes, politically!” the latter firmly asserted, gazing back at him with the eyes of a man who has once and for all thrown off the chains of his bondage.

  “You’re exaggerating,” interjected Avtandil Avtandil­ovich in conciliatory fashion. He did not like broad generalizations unless he was the one to make them.

  Avtandil Avtandilovich now proceeded to raise the question of Platon Samsonovich’s family life, which had inevitably suffered from the ill-advised promotion of the goatibex.

  “His estrangement from the economic realities of collective farm life gradually led to an estrangement from his own family,” the editor summarized. “And this is quite understandable, for having lost all criteria for truth, he came away with an inflated sense of his own importance.”

  After all of the staff members had voiced their individual support of his criticisms, Avtandil Avtandilovich took the floor once again—this time urging us to bear in mind that Platon Samsonovich was an old and experienced newspaper man who, for all his mistakes, was nonetheless devoted heart and soul to our common cause. Here too the staff was in complete agreement, and someone even quoted the saying to the effect that old horses shouldn’t be put out to pasture.

  The humorist, once again unable to restrain himself, now broke in to remind us that such excesses were all too typical of Platon Samsonovich. Several years before, for example, he had tried to develop a new method for catching fish. His idea was to run high-frequency electric currents through the water, thus encouraging the fish to collect in one particular area, away from the electric currents. But what had actually happened was that the fish had left the bay and might never have returned, had his experiments been allowed to continue.

  “That wasn’t the way it was supposed to work, you’ve got it all wrong,” Platon Samsonovich was about to object, but by this time everyone was too tired to listen to technical details of an old experiment.

  As the individual most sensitive to the winds of change, the head of the propaganda section was appointed to replace Platon Samsonovich as head of the agricultural section. In order to make his transition as easy as possible, Platon Samsonovich was to be kept on in the capacity of literary assistant. He was also given an official reprimand. For the time being the editor decided to take no further measures against him, though only on condition that he return to his family and enroll in night school at the beginning of the fall semester. Platon Samsonovich had never been to college.

  “And by the way, be sure you get rid of that goatibex horn,” instructed the editor as we were beginning to leave the room.

  “The horn?” echoed Platon Samsonovich, his Adam’s apple jerking convulsively as he spoke.

  “Yes, the horn,” repeated Avtandil Avtandilovich. “I don’t ever want to see it again.”

  A few minutes later I saw Platon Samsonovich walk out of the building with the goatibex horn wrapped carelessly in a sheet of newspaper. As I pictured him returning to his solitary apartment with his solitary horn—now all that remained of his grand design—I felt a sudden wave of pity. But what was I to do? I could not bring myself to comfort him, nor would I have succeeded had I tried.

  The Moscow article was reprinted in our paper, and the section
dealing with the ill-advised promotion of the goatibex was put in italics for special emphasis. In the same issue there appeared an editorial entitled “The Ill-Advised Promotion of the Goatibex,” which contained a critical evaluation of our paper’s recent performance, and especially that of the agricultural section. The editorial also made reference to certain university lecturers who, without bothering to find out what it was all about, had thoughtlessly offered their services to the propagandizing of this new and as yet insufficiently investigated experiment.

  While the writers of the editorial were obviously alluding to Vakhtang Bochua, they hesitated to attack him directly, since only a week before, he had presented the local historical museum with a valuable collection of Caucasian minerals.

  Naturally, Vakhtang had seen to it that his gift did not go unnoticed. He had phoned in to the newspaper and asked us to have someone attend the presentation ceremony. The assignment was given to the staff photographer, who did indeed produce a memorable photograph of the occasion. Looking for all the world like a repentant pirate, Vakhtang was shown handing over his treasures to the shy museum director.

  And now, only one short week after this magnificent display of altruism it seemed somehow inappropriate to bring up his name in connection with the goatibex.

  Subsequent issues of the paper featured carefully screened reader responses to the attack on the goatibex. Here I should add that one of our staff members paid a special visit to the stubborn livestock expert in order to persuade him to write a long article against the goatibexation of the livestock industry. But the stubborn livestock expert remained true to character and flatly refused to write any such article. Apparently the subject no longer interested him.

  After our publication of the Moscow article we were besieged with phone calls. Someone from the trade office, for example, called in to get our advice on what should be done about the name of the soft drink pavilion “The Watering Place of the Goatibex.” We also began to receive warning calls to the effect that in some kolkhozes goatibexes were being slaughtered. In this connection we advised the interested parties to avoid rushing from one extreme to another; instead they should see to it that the goatibexes were treated like any other animal and quickly integrated into the collective farm herd.