A Time of Miracles

by Anne-Laure Bondoux

  She grabs my hands.

  “Nouka was right!” I sob. “I knew it! You could not die! As long as I needed you, you could not.”

  Gloria opens her arms. I throw myself against her, just like when I was little, trying to find again her detergent-and-tea smell.

  Gloria strokes my hair. She rocks me.

  After so many years of silence, she utters words in a broken voice that puts fire in my heart.

  “I was waiting for you, Koumaïl.”

  Gloria is unable to say anything more that morning, but it doesn’t matter. We have all the time in the world ahead of us now.

  “Isn’t that right?” I say to Dr. Leonidze once we are back in his office.

  The doctor shakes his head slowly and his eyes are like two sad orbs in the middle of his face.

  “Not all the time in the world, Mr. Fortune. A few weeks, a month, maybe two. No more than that, I’m afraid.”

  I look at him without understanding.

  “But you told me that her condition was stable!”

  “Stable doesn’t necessarily mean healthy, Mr. Fortune. Gloria’s lungs have been eaten away by chemical products. We were able to slow down the progression of the disease, but she is terminally ill.”

  A blazing rage rips my chest. I get up and come close to the doctor.

  “You don’t know anything!” I shout at him. “I’m taking her back with me to France! There are better doctors over there! They’ll know what to do to save her!”

  Dr. Leonidze puts his hands in his pockets. He sighs, resigned.

  “I strongly advise against such a trip, Mr. Fortune. She is not strong enough. It would take a miracle to save her.”

  I look at him with a triumphant smile.

  “I came at the right time, then. I am that miracle!”

  chapter forty-four

  I rush back to Gloria’s room. I knock over the bedside table.

  “Come on, let’s go!” I say. “I’m taking you away from this hospital. Where’s your suitcase?”

  Gloria shakes her head. She doesn’t have a suitcase. What would she put inside it? I wonder. Except for the clothes provided by the hospital, she owns nothing.

  “Fine!” I say. “Even better!”

  I open the small closet, where a sweater and a pair of pants are hung, and I throw them on the bed.

  “We’ll go to the French Embassy. They’ll give you a visa, you’ll see. They’ll understand that it’s urgent. I’m a French citizen, don’t forget! I have an official passport! I’m free, and no one will keep me from taking you back with me to Paris!”

  I get hold of a pair of shoes at the bottom of the closet while I keep talking fast, shaking from the excitement.

  “You aren’t staying one more second in this room!” I tell her. “These doctors are useless! That’s why your health is declining! I’ll take care of you, you’ll see! You’ll feel better! Because the truth is that you’re as sturdy as the trees!”

  With the closet empty, I start to fold the clothes, but Gloria’s eyes catch mine. She gives me a look that forces me to be quiet. She does not move from her chair. She smiles with a mysterious sweetness, just like the Mona Lisa.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  Gloria pats the bedspread with her hand, as if saying, “Sit down and stop this foolish agitation.” But I’m obsessed; I want to take her far away from here, to keep her far from death. I’ve waited almost eight years, and I haven’t moved heaven and earth to abandon her now.

  “We’ll talk on the plane,” I say. “I’m going to find a bag for your things.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Gloria whispers.

  And her smile wavers.

  Suddenly I’m drained of energy. I go sit on the bed, close to her.

  It isn’t as hot now, as the sun is coming through the window on a slant. I can hear cars honking in the street.

  Gloria and I look at one another for a long time, and I try to decipher what it is that she can’t tell me. Almost crying, I recognize that it would be foolish to leave Georgia.

  “OK, you’re right, we’ll wait,” I say. “There’s no hurry after all.”

  Gloria smiles again now. She seems relieved.

  “Would you like to go out for a short walk?” I suggest.

  * * *

  It is afternoon, and Gloria walks slowly. We wander aimlessly, under sculpted balconies and laundry hung out to dry in windows. Dogs pass by, sniffing the walls. I realize that Gloria stops often to regain her strength.

  After a while we sit under a tree and share the bottle of water that I brought from the hotel. There is so much to say that I don’t know where to begin.

  We remain silent, our eyes directed to the river at the bottom of the hill. Birds are singing, insects are buzzing; if it weren’t for the shells of buildings destroyed by the war, you’d think the Caucasus was a peaceful region.

  “When we lived in the Complex, was it here?” I ask. “I mean in Tbilisi?”

  “You remember?” Gloria says, surprised.

  “Of course! I remember everything from there on.”

  I describe to her my first memory, with the laundry and Sergei, who shaved my head.

  “And before that?” she asks.

  “Before that you told me everything. About Vassili, Zemzem, the Terrible Accident …”

  Gloria sighs. Her eyes search for something in the landscape, then settle back on me.

  “You’ve grown so much, Koumaïl. Are you happy in France?” she asks.

  How do I answer this question? In a way, yes, I am happy. I have a roof over my head; I am never famished or cold; I get financial help to complete my studies at the university; I often walk in Montmartre; I drink cool beer on café terraces with friends; I laugh; I go to the movies when I have enough money; and above all, there is the love that I share with Prudence. But a profound sadness has stayed with me each day of my life, an inconsolable sorrow that feels like a hole where my heart should be.

  I look down to pick a blade of grass and roll it between my fingers.

  “I didn’t find my mother, you know,” I say.

  When I look up again, Gloria is staring at me. Her expression and the pallor of her face scare me.

  “Do you want to go back?” I say, worried.

  She motions that no, she does not want to do that. She leans back against the tree trunk, lost in thought or contemplating the sun playing in the leaves.

  “It’s time that I tell you your story, Koumaïl,” she says finally.

  “My story? You told it to me a million times. I know it by heart! Don’t tire yourself.”

  “Tst, tsk, tsk. It’s a new version.”

  “Oh?”

  “Come here, like in the old times. I’ve been waiting nearly eight years for this moment.”

  I’ve never been able to disobey Gloria. So I stretch my legs out on the grass and I put my head on her stomach. In spite of her weight loss, her middle is still comfortable, and it soothes me to feel Gloria’s breath on my face.

  “You have to promise me something,” she says before she begins.

  “What?”

  “Not to interrupt me.”

  I promise as she strokes my forehead. Then I close my eyes to concentrate on her voice.

  I don’t say a word. I listen to my story. The new version.

  chapter forty-five

  “IT was the end of summer,” Gloria begins. “In 1984, to be precise.”

  “At that time I was twenty and the Caucasus was part of the Soviet Union. Russians, Georgians, Ingushetians, Armenians, or Abkhazians, we all lived under Moscow rule. It was the hazard of history, and nobody would have thought that this would change for a long time to come.

  “My father, old Vassili, was Russian. He and Liuba, my mother, had settled in Abkhazia to work in an orchard. It was not his orchard: in spite of his suspenders and his huge mustache, Vassili was a simple laborer. He possessed nothing but the strength of his arms and his six children. You remember the
m, don’t you? Fotia and Oleg, with their athletic shoulders; Anatoly, who hid his eyes behind thick glasses; Iefrem, whose hair was curlier than a lamb’s; Dobromir, with his angelic smile. And me, his only daughter.”

  I smile as I hear the names of the members of this ghostly and ideal family that has lived in my imagination since childhood.

  “That summer Zemzem arrived at the orchard. He came from Chechnya, a republic farther north. He was as poor as we were, but he had received an education. He was very handsome; we fell in love at first sight. We walked under the trees, we spoke about a thousand things. I admired everything about Zemzem: his vitality, his intelligence, his ideas, his knowledge. So when some months later I realized that I was expecting his child, I felt happy. Happy like never before.”

  My heart jumps in my chest and my breathing accelerates. I don’t dare open my eyes, in case Gloria stops talking.

  “On December 28, 1985,” she goes on in a voice slowed with emotion, “I gave birth to a magnificent boy. Everybody had gathered at the house—Liuba, Vassili, and my five brothers. Zemzem was proud and filled with wonder. He put his hand on his son and said that it was a miracle.

  “This child, it was you. And we called you Koumaïl.”

  I can no longer breathe. I am paralyzed.

  In the silence that follows, a drop of water falls on my forehead. I jerk. When I open my eyes, I see tears running along Gloria’s cheeks.

  Breaking my promise, I whisper, “It was me? You mean that—”

  Gloria puts a finger on my lips. Her whole body is trembling, so I keep my questions to myself.

  “We were happy together for a few years,” she goes on. “But things changed suddenly around 1989, when the power of the Soviet Union declined. The many different peoples of the Caucasus started their claim for independence. It was a bit like having put a lid over boiling water for fifty years. When you lift the lid, you burn yourself.

  “Zemzem was ready to act. He gathered men around him to organize for the liberation of the smaller enslaved republics. He spoke well and with such conviction that many workers wanted to follow him. Starting with me! We wanted to start a revolution. We wanted people to live freely, on their own land. We wanted people to speak their ancestral language, to practice their own religion, their own culture. Zemzem was ready to take big chances to make that happen, but I did not realize it. I attended the meetings, I listened to the speeches, and I was excited.

  “With a small group of volunteers, we met in secret in a shed at the back of the orchard. I saw the weapons, the chemical products, all the war equipment, arrive. Zemzem often said that our revolution could not be a peaceful one. With fervor he taught us how to make bombs.

  “You should have seen us manipulating cans and toxic powders without any protection. We were totally fearless. We were so young!

  “Vassili and Liuba were worried, and so were my brothers. Vassili said our family was Russian and that it was none of our business to interfere with the business of Abkhazia, Chechnya, or Georgia. We were just small farmers, apple pickers! We had to leave politics and weapons to others! But I was too much in love to listen to my father.

  “One night, at the end of the summer of 1991, I went with Zemzem and the others along the railroad track. Everything was ready; we put our explosives on the tracks.

  “In the morning, when the express train appeared on the horizon, I realized the gravity of our actions. Fear overcame me. I begged Zemzem to defuse the bomb. He refused. The express train was carrying Georgian soldiers, and according to him, they were our enemies. I shouted that there were also civilians on the train, women and children. I couldn’t change his mind. The train was getting nearer. I didn’t know what to do.

  “The bombs exploded.

  “There was a terrible commotion.

  “Zemzem and the others made the V sign for ‘victory’ and left. But I could not.

  “The train was on fire, people were screaming, so I came closer. I heard the calls of a woman. I slipped into a ripped-open car and I crawled between the torn seats.

  “She was in a ball in one corner, blood all over her face. She held a baby against her breast. I bent down. It was too late; the baby was dead. I tried to drag the woman out, but she died before I got too far. I stayed there, close to her, crying, not knowing what to do.

  “And then, in the middle of the mess, I found her suitcase. Inside there was a lambskin blanket, a radio, a poetry book, French cigarettes, clothes, a violin. There was also a wad of American dollars and two French passports—hers and the baby’s. I took the suitcase. Farther away I noticed a large canvas military bag that the force of the explosion had emptied. I transferred the contents of the suitcase into it; I lifted the bag onto my back and got out of the car.

  “Outside, help was arriving, including Vassili and my brothers, who tried to put out the fire with the tanker truck. I met the horrified stare of my father and he understood what I had done.

  “That very evening I told Zemzem that I did not want to participate in his group’s actions anymore, that it was criminal and cruel. We had a very violent argument. You were there, Koumaïl. You cried when you heard us fight. Zemzem calmed down and took you on his knee and asked if you thought that he was a criminal. You said no, of course. Zemzem held you tight in his arms and said, ‘And your mother? Don’t you think she is a coward?’ You cried again, not understanding what was happening. You were only five years old. Even I was terrified.”

  Suddenly I start to suffocate. I rise on my shaky legs. I lean against the tree trunk. I open my mouth, trying to breathe again. A jumble of thoughts swirl through my mind. I feel like howling and I am unable to define my feelings. Is it anger I feel? Disgust? Relief? Fear?

  After a while Gloria whispers, “I have to finish the story, Koumaïl. Then you’ll be able to judge.”

  I set myself down at the foot of the tree. I have no strength left, and I listen, my head in my hands, to Gloria’s weak voice.

  “The war had been hatching for a long time between the Abkhazians and the Georgians,” she goes on. “After the attack the region fell rapidly into serious political problems, and a price was put on Zemzem’s head. He had no choice but to go underground. Of course he wanted us to come with him. When he looked at you, he seemed angry. He said that he would make a proud soldier out of you, a hero. You, a child! So I made a decision.

  “I went to see Vassili and Liuba. They gave me the samovar, some food, and the green atlas that you loved so much to look at. My brothers kissed you and bid me farewell. Fotia put a piece of paper in my hand, with the name and address of a man he knew in Sukhumi, a trusted friend who worked at the Matachine and who would be able to help me if I needed to leave the Caucasus.

  “That same night Vassili took us in his truck to the neighboring town. He left me there with you. My old father’s heart was broken, but he couldn’t forgive me for having taken part in the bombing, and I understood that he didn’t want to see me again.

  “I was afraid that Zemzem would try to pursue us, afraid that the Georgian militia would link us to him, afraid of everything. It became clear in my mind that nobody must know that I was Zemzem Dabaiev’s wife, and nobody must know that you were his son. We had to get a new identity, hide the truth, break off the ties that united us, even the ties between you and me. It was a matter of life or death.

  “We survived a full year going from place to place. I don’t want to remember some of the people I met then, but I also found others who were kind and helped us. And all my hopes rested on the two French passports I had stolen. I believed that one day they would save our lives.

  “That’s the time I began to make up stories. You were so small! How could you overcome the ordeal of such a grim reality? I didn’t want you to keep the memory of a terrorist father. I didn’t want the burden of the dead people on the train on your shoulders. I didn’t want you to suffer the same heartbreaking experience I had when I left my family. I wanted your life to be beautiful, filled with
hope and light. So I made up the story of your birth and your childhood. I imagined a more romantic past for you.

  “Every night I added some details, some new events. I opened the gear and used its contents to give weight to my lies. The book, for instance, was by a French poet who lived in Russia. His name was Blaise Cendrars. I got the name Jeanne from one of his poems. ‘Fortune’ was just a brand of cigarettes. I didn’t feel I was lying to you. My only concern was to protect you.”

  I am motionless under the tree in the summer heat of Tbilisi. My head is still in my hands, and my heart is pumping noisily. Above my head the sun has moved and is over the river now. I am not hungry or thirsty. I do not feel anything but total bewilderment.

  Gloria is exhausted, and I think that she is scared of what is to come.

  “And Mont-Saint-Michel?” I manage to ask.

  Gloria sighs. “When Mr. Ha falsified our passports, he erased the original names so that no one could link us to the woman and her baby who died in the Terrible Accident. He noticed that the pictures in the catalog filled you with wonder. He’s the one who thought of Mont-Saint-Michel. There is your true story, Koumaïl.”

  I look at the Caucasus sky, its small clouds and its magnificent blue. I try to gather my thoughts, without success. I have the feeling that I could stay here for a hundred years without saying a word; that I could take root in this dry soil, become a stone, or crumble into dust.

  Later an insect lands on my cheek. I chase it away with my hand, and this mechanical gesture brings me back to life.

  “I’m your son. Your real son …,” I whisper.

  Gloria suppresses a sob. “Do you remember the list of precious things?” she says.

  I nod.

  “You always wanted to know what Zemzem had given me. And I refused to answer. Now I can tell you that he gave me the most precious of all the gifts. You.”

  I kneel in the grass to look at the person who has just spoken these words. It is Gloria. My Gloria. My mother! My mother, who cries silently and trembles as if she were cold, even though it is so warm outside. She lied to me, I think. All along, she lied to me.