The Goatibex Constellation

by Fazil Iskander

  After consulting with the rest of us as to what to advise the trade office people, Avtandil Avtandilovich decided that here too there was no need to go to extremes. Rather than destroy the pavilion sign completely, they should merely eliminate the first syllable of the word “goatibex” as quietly and inconspicuously as possible, thus transforming the pavilion into “The Watering Place of the Ibex”—a much more romantic name as it seemed to me.

  While the sign on the pavilion itself was quickly altered according to Avtandil Avtandilovich’s specifications, the neon sign above the pavilion proved to be somewhat of a problem. In fact, every night for a whole month afterward the letters of the old name, “The Watering Place of the Goatibex,” winked down impudently from on high. Thus one might have supposed that the watering place was frequented by ibexes during the day, while at night the stubborn goatibexes still held sway.

  Certain members of the local intelligentsia began congregating in this spot for the express purpose of gazing up at the neon sign. For them it seemed to contain a hint of the liberals’ struggle against something or other, while at the same time offering concrete proof of the dogmatists’ wicked intransigence.

  One evening as I happened to be entering the café next door, I myself saw some of these freethinkers gathered in a large if unobtrusive group outside the pavilion.

  “There’s more to this than meets the eye,” declared one of them with a slight nod in the direction of the neon sign.

  “Spit in my eye if this is going to be the end of it,” said another.

  “My friends,” interrupted a prudent voice, “everything you say is true; still, you shouldn’t stare so openly at the sign. Just take a quick look and walk past.”

  “Who does he think he is?!” protested the first one. “If I feel like looking, I’ll go ahead and look. This isn’t the old days.”

  “No, but someone might get the wrong idea,” said the voice of prudence, peering cautiously around him. Then, noticing me, he immediately stopped short and added: “Well, as I was saying, the criticism has come at just the right time.”

  They all looked over in my direction and, as if by command, began moving toward the café, now vehemently gesticulating as they continued their argument in barely audible tones.

  During this same period I received a phone call from the business manager of the Municipal Opera and Choral Society, who wanted my advice as to what should be done about the goatibex song, which was still being performed by the tobacco factory choir as well as by several soloists.

  “You see, I do have a financial plan to fulfill,” he said in an apologetic voice, “and the song is very popular…, and though its popularity may not be a good thing, as I can now appreciate, still…”

  I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to consult Avtandil Avtandilovich on this particular matter.

  “Please hold on for just a minute,” I said to the business manager, and putting down the receiver, I set off for the editor’s office.

  After hearing me out, Avtandil Avtandilovich declared that any choral performances of the goatibex song were absolutely out of the question.

  “And besides, the members of that choir are no more tobacco workers than I am,” he added abruptly. “But as far as the soloists are concerned, I think it’s all right for them to sing it, as long as they give the right interpretation to the words. The main thing now,” he concluded, switching on the fan, “is to avoid rushing from one extreme to another. Just tell him that.”

  I conveyed the contents of our conversation to the guardian of the Municipal Opera and Choral Society, after which he hung up—rather pensively as it seemed to me.

  Platon Samsonovich had not come to work that day. On the following day his wife appeared in his place and marched straight into the editor’s office. Several minutes later the editor summoned the chairman of the trade union committee, who subsequently told the rest of us what had happened. It seemed that upon hearing of the goatibex’s fate, Platon Samsonovich’s wife had gone to visit her husband in his solitary apartment and had found him lying in bed, the victim either of some sort of nervous disorder resulting from physical exhaustion or of physical exhaustion resulting from some sort of nervous disorder. In any case, they had now become reconciled once and for all, and Platon Samsonovich’s wife had rejoined her husband in the old apartment, leaving the new apartment to their grown children.

  “There, you see,” said Avtandil Avtandilovich in a conciliatory tone, “healthy criticism actually contributes to the well-being of the family.”

  “Well, the criticism may be healthy, but I’ve got a very sick man on my hands,” she replied.

  “Well, there we can be of some help,” Avtandil Avtandilovich assured her, at the same time instructing the chairman of the trade union committee to obtain a sick pass for the ailing Platon Samsonovich.

  Whether due to a quirk of fate or to some quirk of the committee chairman, Platon Samsonovich was sent off to a mountain health resort which until very recently had been named in honor of the goatibex. This particular resort, I might add, is one of the best in our Republic and is usually booked solid for months in advance.

  About two weeks later, when the last volleys of goatibex counterpropaganda had finally died down, when the animals themselves had been utterly repulsed and their scattered and isolated numbers finally reconciled to joining the ranks of the collective farm herd—just at this time there took place in our city a one-day agricultural conference attended by our region’s most successful collective farmers. The conference had been convened to celebrate our Republic’s overfulfillment of its tea production quotas for the year—an event of no small importance since tea is our major crop.

  Not surprisingly, Illarion Maksimovich’s kolkhoz at Walnut Springs numbered among our region’s most successful tea-raising collectives, and during the recess following the morning business session I happened to catch sight of Illarion Maksimovich himself. He was seated with the agronomist and Gogola at a small table in the conference hall restaurant. The two men were drinking beer, while Gogola was munching a pastry as she gazed wide-eyed at the other women in the room.

  Just the day before, our paper had done a feature story on the tea growers of Walnut Springs, so I felt no qualms about approaching them. We exchanged greetings and they asked me to join them.

  The agronomist looked the same as ever, but on the chairman’s face I noticed an expression of restrained irony—the same sort of expression one sees on a peasant’s face when he is forced out of politeness to listen to a city person hold forth on the subject of agriculture. It was only when the chairman turned to Gogola that his eyes showed any signs of life.

  “Would you like another pastry, Gogola?”

  “No thanks,” she replied absentmindedly as she continued to gaze at the women, all of whom had donned their party best for the occasion.

  “Oh, come on, just one more,” said the chairman, trying to coax her.

  “I don’t want another pastry, but a lemonade would be real nice,” she finally consented.

  “A bottle of lemonade,” said Illarion Maksimovich, addressing the waitress.

  “Well, are you happy that they’ve called off the goatibex?” I asked the chairman when he had finished filling each of our glasses with beer.

  “It’s a fine undertaking,” he replied, “but there’s only one thing I’m afraid of…”

  “What’s that?” I asked, eyeing him with curiosity.

  He drained the contents of his glass and set it back on the table.

  “If they’ve called off the goatibex,” he said pensively, as if gazing into the future, “that means they’ll be thinking up something new, and for our climatic conditions…”

  “I know,” I interrupted, “for your climatic conditions it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “That’s it exactly,” confirmed the chairman, now completely serious.

  “I really don’t think you have to worry,” I said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.
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br />   “Well, let’s hope not,” he said slowly and then added: “But if they’ve called off the goatibex, there’s bound to be something new—though just what, I don’t know.”

  “And what’s happened to your goatibex?” I asked.

  “He’s joined the collective herd and is being treated like any other animal,” replied the chairman as if talking about something very remote, which no longer posed a threat.

  The bell rang, and we returned to the conference hall. I said good-bye to them and stationed myself at the door so that I could make a quick exit later on. I was supposed to return to the office and write up my report as soon as the concert was over.

  Pata Pataraya’s Caucasian dancers were the first to appear and, as always, these agile, light-footed performers were greeted with thunderous applause.

  They were called back for several encores, and now appearing on stage along with them was Pata Pataraya himself—a slim elderly man with a resilient step. Heartened by the audience’s enthusiastic response, he finally treated us to his famed “knee flight,” dating back to the nineteen-thirties.

  In performing this tour de force he would come flying onto the stage at lightning speed, suddenly drop down on his knees and then, with arms outstretched and head held proudly erect, he would slide on his knees diagonally across the stage as if making a beeline toward the loge reserved for top government officials. But at the very last second, as the audience sat paralyzed, half expecting him to topple into the orchestra, Pata Pataraya would jump up as if released by a spring and begin whirling in the air like a black tornado.

  The spectators went wild.

  When Pata Pataraya and his dancers had finally left the stage, the mistress of ceremonies announced:

  “A chonguri* trio will perform a song without words.”

  Three girls in long white dresses and white kerchiefs walked onto the brightly lit stage. They sat down and began tuning their chonguris, listening attentively and casting shy glances at one another. Then one of them gave a signal and they began to play. Their voices immediately took up the melody on the strings and they began singing in imitation of the mountaineer’s old-fashioned song without words.

  The melody seemed strangely familiar and suddenly I realized that it was the former goatibex song, though now at a much slower tempo. A gasp of recognition passed through the hall, and glancing over in Illarion Maksimovich’s direction, I noticed that an expression of restrained irony still lingered on his broad face. Perhaps this was the expression he always assumed when visiting the city, and most likely it would not change until the moment of his departure. Gogola was sitting next to the chairman, her slim, pretty neck craned forward as she gazed up at the stage like one bewitched. And next to her, the sleepy agronomist sat dozing in his chair like General Kutuzov* at a military staff meeting.

  The three chonguri players received even more applause than Pata Pataraya and were forced to sing two encores of their song without words—a song which for this particular audience had all the sweetness of forbidden fruit.

  And although the fruit itself had proved extremely bitter—as no one knew better than the individuals in this hall—and although they were all very glad that it had been forbidden, nonetheless it was pleasant to savor its sweetness, if only the sweetness of its interdiction. Such, apparently, is the nature of man and such it is likely to remain.

  IX

  Life in our editorial office had returned to normal. Platon Samsonovich had come back from his mountain resort completely restored to health, and on the day following his return he had asked me to go fishing with him. I was flattered by his invitation and accepted with pleasure.

  As I have already mentioned, Platon Samsonovich was one of the most experienced fishermen along our shores, and if the fish didn’t seem to be biting in one spot, he would say to me:

  “I know another spot…”

  And I would start rowing toward the other spot. But if they didn’t seem to be biting here either, he would say:

  “I know a completely different spot…”

  And I would start rowing toward the completely different spot. But if even here they didn’t seem to be biting, then he would lie down in the stern and say:

  “You might as well head back to shore; the fish have gone out to deeper waters.”

  And I would head back to shore, for in such matters Platon Samsonovich’s word was law.

  But this sort of thing happened rarely, and on this occasion, as was usually the case, we made a good haul. Platon Samsonovich was especially successful—he being one of those fisherman who would throw out ten lines at a time. His lines would be attached to flexible poles, and as the latter hung suspended over the side of the boat, he would somehow manage to keep up with the nibbles on each line without getting them crossed. And whenever he would give one of his lines a gentle tug, lifting it slightly and at the same time listening intently to what was happening down below, it was as if he were some fabulous puppeteer manipulating the strings of this underwater kingdom.

  After we had tied up at the pier and come ashore, I feasted my eyes once again on Platon Samsonovich’s catch. Along with the other, more common varieties of fish flapping in his net, there was a beautiful sea cock—a prize species of the Black Sea and one that I myself had never succeeded in catching.

  “Not only are you an expert, you’re lucky as well,” I commented enviously.

  “Oh, by the way, I made an interesting discovery when I was fishing up in the mountains,” he said after a short pause.

  We were walking along next to the sea wall—he with a whole netful of wet fish and I with my more modest catch in a small string bag.

  “What sort of discovery,” I asked without much curiosity.

  “Well, when I was looking for trout up there along the banks of the Upper Kodor, I just happened upon a fantastic cave…”

  Something in his voice put me on guard. I stole a glance at his eyes and saw that once again they had their old, feverish glitter.

  “There are thousands of such caves up in the mountains,” I sharply interjected.

  “Not at all,” he replied heatedly, his eyes lighting up with a harsh, unpleasant glitter. “That cave had an unusual array of stalactites and stalagmites; they were like clusters of flowers of all different colors… I brought back a whole suitcaseful of samples.”

  “And what are you going to do with them?” I asked, taking as distant a tone as possible.

  “I want to get some Party officials interested in this… This is no mere cave, it’s an underground palace, a fairy tale, an absolute gold mine…”

  Suddenly his face had a new, youthful look, and I realized that all the energy he had managed to store up during his stay in the mountains would now be expended on this cave.

  “There are thousands of such caves up there in the mountains,” I dully repeated.

  “If a cableway were installed, tourists could be whisked up to this underground palace straight from their steamships—and along the way they could take in the view of the Kodor Delta and the surrounding mountains…”

  “That’s a distance of over a hundred kilometers,” I interrupted, “and who’s going to give you the money for a project like that?”

  “It would pay for itself! It would pay for itself in no time!” he joyfully exclaimed, and dropping his fishnet onto the wall, he continued: “Tourists will come flocking by the thousands from all over the world. Straight from the boat to the cave…”

  “Not to mention the fact that one shepherd will be able to tend two thousand goatibexes,” I broke in facetiously.

  “What does this have to do with goatibexes?” he asked in genuine surprise. “It’s tourism that’s being promoted now. Did you know that Italy lives off its tourist trade?”

  “Well, okay,” I said, “I’m going to stop for a cup of coffee. You can do as you please.”

  “Wait a minute,” he called after me as I began walking away. I sensed that he was trying to involve me and I was determined
not to let it happen.

  “You see, I left the suitcase with the samples in the baggage room at the station,” he said shyly.

  “No, I don’t see,” I replied coolly.

  “Well, you can imagine, if my wife sees those stalactites and stalagmites, she’ll immediately start pestering me.”

  “What has that got to do with me?” I asked, suddenly realizing what lay behind his fishing invitation.

  “We’ll go and pick up the suitcase, and I’ll leave it at your place just for the time being…”

  Having just returned from a day’s fishing, I had no desire to traipse across town to the railroad station, and I quickly replied:

  “Okay, but it’ll have to wait till tomorrow. Your stalactites won’t spoil overnight, I trust.”

  “Don’t be silly!” he exclaimed. “Why, they last for thousands of years—and these particular ones have an amazingly rare coloration, as you’ll see for yourself tomorrow.”

  “Well, okay, till tomorrow,” I said.

  “Good-bye,” he mumbled with a faraway look in his eyes as he carelessly picked up his netful of beautiful fish.

  I hadn’t taken more than a few steps, when he stopped me again. I turned around.

  “Don’t say anything about the cave for the time being,” he said, pressing a finger to his lips.

  “Okay, I won’t,” I replied and quickly walked off in the direction of the café.

  It was evening—one of those marvelous, still evenings typical of early fall in our area. The sun was sinking slowly into the sea, and the western end of the bay had become a mass of flaming gold. Toward the east the gold was gradually fading, taking on first lilac, then ashen hues. Still farther to the east both sea and shore had already blurred into a grayish-blue haze.

  My thoughts returned to Platon Samsonovich. It occurred to me that he and others like him represented a new and strange type of innovator (or inventor or entrepreneur—call him what you will) typical of our era. Since it was the government itself which supported him, he could never go completely bankrupt, no matter how many times he might fail. And for this very reason, not only was his source of funds virtually inexhaustible, but his enthusiasm as well.