“You have no idea how lucky we are. This text is only just out in Russia. Chichinadze had to send away for it on my request.”
Kapanadze can’t help but roll his eyes at the leader’s pretension.
“I know it must be difficult for some of you to follow Plekhanov’s argument,” continues Devdariani, “as you’re every bit as unfamiliar with subjective Russian Utopians as you are with German Utopians. But let me see if I can’t explain the situation in simpler terms.”
Soso grits his teeth at Devdariani across the circle. So the leader’s going to explain the basic arguments of Marxism in “simpler terms”? To think, last year, when Soso was new to the seminary and far more timid in all matters, that he befriended and even liked this sixth-year student, that he was impressed by Devdariani’s wide learning and past friendship with the great Lado Ketskhoveli. He’d even invited Devdariani to drop by his mother’s home in Gori during the first part of their Christmas break. What a naive error! Now Soso considers Devdariani just another pompous priest to endure.
Several of the sharper seminarians sigh and shift position. Although their leader irritates them, it’s true that these younger students don’t really know anything about socialism. When Devdariani begins to explain Plekhanov’s arguments about Marxism in the Russian context, those willing to listen learn something. As the conversation grows more theoretical, more and more of the students wrinkle their brows and lean forward or pull back in their seats, tightening their lips in thought. Mikhail Semenov, a bright second-year student, asks for a brief clarification of human nature as understood by Marx.
“Human nature,” explains Devdariani, “is not a fixed and constant thing.” He rifles through the Plekhanov until he finds the quote he needs. “Here,” Devdariani says, looking at the text. “He—meaning Marx—regarded man’s nature itself as the eternally changing result of historical progress, the cause of which lies outside man. In other words,” continues Devdariani, “Marx has defined human nature as the product of our behaviour and not as its cause. Human nature is variable. It is conditioned by our economic situation and therefore always subject to change. It is not really a nature at all.”
“But that reverses everything,” says an excited Semenov. “That means the science of human development can only be truly understood from the opposite vantage point. From the external to the internal.”
“Precisely,” says Devdariani—rather too smugly, Soso thinks.
“So whereas generations have looked to human nature for ultimate answers, Marx has rightfully taken the historical and material condition of man to be the defining factor in human development.”
“Yes,” Devdariani says, leaning back with satisfaction.
“Keep it down over there,” calls Konstanin Feokhari, a grim young seminarian with long hair and a pair of glasses that are too small for his wide face. Feokhari sits with Aleksander Novikov at Novikov’s single desk on the other side of the room. These two serious and hard-working students, both top performers in their class, study together, pray together, eat their bread and beans together, always without complaint. Both boys dream of a life in service to the Orthodox Church and neither would dream of joining Devdariani’s forbidden group. They are reading and discussing a glorified account of Tsar Alexander II from the seminary’s approved history of Russia.
“You keep it down,” shouts Parkadze, although the two students have been silent until now. “Pious ass-kissers.”
Parkadze’s insult garners laughter from the other seminarians around him. One member of the group, Doremidont Gogokhiya, pounds his beefy hand on his chair and guffaws with an open mouth.
“You’re drug dealers,” adds Devdariani, suddenly realizing the social potential in baiting the other two. “Poisoning the proletariat with your piety.”
“Shut up, Seid,” whispers Novikov.
“Religion’s an opiate,” Devdariani continues. “You’re training to be the capitalist’s wine-slobbering, Eucharist-chomping lackeys.”
“Godless monsters,” whispers Feokhari as he grabs the greasy hair falling over his temples and pulls it down over his ears.
“Get back to your prayers,” calls Kapanadze, laughing.
“Never mind them,” says Devdariani, turning back towards the group and shaking his head.
“They dream of their heaven,” adds Parkadze, still playing the eager apostle to Devdariani’s Christ, “but don’t give a thought to the salvation of our Georgian workers’ souls.”
Soso frowns, shifts his weight, and clenches his fists until they’re numb. He can’t stand this pathetic and timid shouting match. In Gori’s ramshackle streets, he broke noses, slingshot cows, set fire to an old prince’s apple orchard. Lado too is a fighter, demanding real change from the Russian authorities. These children around him now are nothing more than petty fools. Devdariani and his idiot friends think rebellion is a game, a mere school argument, and a challenge is nothing more than the berating of a couple of easy targets like Novikov and Feokhari. In his sudden fury, Soso feels moved to speak against Devdariani and the entire reading group. He stomps his boot, stands, and shouts: “You idiots act as if Charles Darwin never existed.”
The others turn towards Soso in astonishment. He is pacing back and forth on the outside of the circle.
“Listen to yourselves. Marx has defined human nature as the product, not the cause. What a load of horseshit! You blabber on and on as if the precious ‘human’ were some kind of sacred creature, when anyone who’s thought enough to read a little bit of Darwin knows that human nature is precisely the same as animal nature at its core. It’s just a difference in degree.”
“Now wait a minute, Soso,” says Devdariani without raising his voice. He sits perfectly still, both of his hands resting on top of his book.
“What, are you a priest?” asks Soso, standing behind his chair and leaning over it to face the leader. “Are you and your little deacon Parkadze here going to explain the gospel to us faithful seminarians? The devil take you both! Someone ought to kick you square in the jaw. And with a vengeance, too!”
“Soso,” says Devdariani, holding out a soothing hand and smiling benignly. “I think you’ve underestimated the intellect of our dear comrade Plekhanov.”
“Our dear comrade?” Soso makes a show of his laughter. “Is that how it is? If Plekhanov was here, on the toilet, he wouldn’t deem your Holy Arrogance worthy of tapping the piss out of his Marxist cock.”
A few of the seminarians, including Iremashvili, giggle at Soso’s glorious heresy.
“That’s how much he’s your comrade.”
Although Parkadze is red-faced, Devdariani remains calm, his hands still resting in his lap. He waits for the laughter to die down. “You’re quite mistaken, Soso,” he begins, “if you think Marx or Plekhanov are unfamiliar with the work of Charles Darwin. Both men say that Darwin was right, that human nature is not at all special, but rather that it contains characteristics virtually identical with other animals. This difference between man and beast is quantitative, they say, not at all qualitative. So they agree with Charles Darwin on the question of human nature.”
Parkadze nods and leans back, letting a wide smile spread across his face as he looks at Soso. He mouths the word runt.
“I suggest you read your text more carefully in the future, dear Soso. Especially if you intend on attacking the intelligence and diligence of your comrades.”
Soso grips the back of his chair. A milky haze encroaches upon his vision, filling the space between him and his older foe. The teeth in the back of his jaw ache. His nails are digging into the wood, carving shallow crescents. The muscles in his hands throb; his fingertips are numb. His body recalls swirling like this once before, digging his nails into another piece of wood, the leg of that lopsided bed in the gloomy Avlabari district as his angry and drunken father, home from Adelkhanov’s reeking and half-flooded shoe factory, and having already blown his day’s wages on vodka and wine, stood above the writhing boy and punte
d him with his big boots dozens of times square in the chest. The same boots that are now on Soso’s feet. These boots that float through Soso’s dreams, alighting here, on the branch of a cherry tree, and there, on the floor, in a pool of blood and mud. He still feels those soul-crushing, body-breaking thuds.
He curls his toes as if the boots have lost their laces and are in danger of slipping off his feet. Soso searches the fuzzy faces of his companions, reading their poorly hidden mockery, their amusement at his idiotic failings, the willingness of these so-called friends to gather themselves in Devdariani’s corner as soon as the power shifts. One comment, one mistake, one error, and all is lost. It’s true I read the Plekhanov much too quickly, thinks Soso, and far too late at night, and only after studying homiletics and moral theology for god knows how long. I put myself out on a limb by taking a forceful position without proper preparation, without giving it anywhere near enough consideration.
Soso slides his chair to the side and steps into the circle.
“Here’s the truth,” he says, the strength of his voice condensed into a fierce and raspy whisper. “You cocksuckers think reading a book or two of summarized Marxism makes you revolutionaries? You think sitting in a circle and coddling each other while discoursing on this or that or the other will give you the courage to lead actual workers into actual rebellion? You think Lado Ketskhoveli would do anything but laugh at this passive, womanly, castrated discussion group? Where are your balls, men? I know damn well as you that Marxism is founded on Darwin’s thought. But to sit around here talking about human nature this, human nature that, what’s the point of it? Do any of you ladies know what it actually means to live as a man? Because this isn’t it, comrades! This is playing a little game. This is what children do!”
Soso storms to his bunk, crashes down, and brazenly opens his borrowed Darwin. He has nothing more to say, not another word for his fellow seminarians. He pretends to concentrate on the book, deciding he’ll let them wonder if he’s finished with his rant or about to explode again.
Devdariani sighs. After a pause, he speaks again, now leading the conversation into Plekhanov’s criticism of Mikhailovsky, another Russian socialist. The pious boys at Novikov’s desk brush their greasy hair behind their ears and return to their more chaste books and thought.
Later, as the students are eating their beans and gossiping between bites, they are conscious of Soso’s bulky silence, although they decide to ignore him. Soso continues to brood as he limps up the stairs to the dormitory and again in the communal bathroom as he washes his face in the large basin, the others’ laughter echoing off the cheap white tiles. He has neither a word nor a glance for them. Soso is studying a moonscape in the mirror, the hundreds of craters that smallpox has carved into his skin, as Iremashvili and some of the other students furtively glance at him while brushing their teeth.
Only minutes before the final bell and the call for lights out, when the seminarians are supposed to be praying by their beds, contemplating the day that’s past and committing themselves to another in the service of the Lord, Soso breaks the invisible bubble he’s been living inside for several hours. He walks over to Vano Ketskhoveli’s bunk, kneels, and whispers into his friend’s thick ear: “As of this moment, right now, you are no longer a member of Seid Devdariani’s discussion group. Tomorrow afternoon we will meet in study period and I will begin to explain to you what Marxism is really about.”
Vano raises his bushy brow and parts his lips. He blinks and squints; his glasses are lying on the bed. He can’t bring himself to speak.
Soso stands and marches to Iremashvili’s bunk. He kneels and repeats the firm command in identical language, causing Iremashvili to frown and wrinkle his forehead. “But Koba,” he whispers, “Devdariani and Parkadze are final-years. They’ve studied with Lado. Don’t you want to learn from them?”
Soso wraps his thick hand around the back of Iremashvili’s neck, pushes his friend an inch or two forward, and squeezes hard enough to communicate the seriousness of his intent.
“Don’t you know I can read any book as well as fucking Lado? I’ll explain to you all about old Marx and Plekhanov.”
Now he stands and makes his way over to Kapanadze’s bunk.
Kapanadze, who is kneeling and pretending to pray, begins to listen to Soso’s command, but erupts in laughter before he’s finished. “You screwed up with the Darwin,” he says. “That’s all that’s happened, Koba. Forget about it and rejoin the group tomorrow.”
Soso feels he could bite down hard enough to crack all the teeth in his mouth.
“Devdariani’s an asshole, I agree,” continues Kapanadze, “but he knows what he’s talking about. I’m not leaving his group.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
Kapanadze stares into Soso’s dull speckled eyes, an act of pure and brazen defiance, which has the peculiar effect of further calming Soso.
“Let me ask you something,” whispers Soso. “A clarification, for my benefit. Are you aware that every April the best students in our seminary are called into Serafim’s office and asked to inform on their peers? And are you aware that at those meetings there are Okhrana officers present?”
As Kapanadze pales, Soso begins to smirk with unrestrained pleasure.
“No, I didn’t think you knew that. Only top seminarians are privy to that kind of information. And you’re not one of the best, are you?”
“Koba,” Kapanadze says, “you wouldn’t.”
“What do you know about it?”
Kapanadze stutters and shrugs.
“Seid Devdariani’s an idiot with half-baked ideas about Marxism,” continues Soso. “He can’t abide the thought of someone else knowing more than him or, god forbid, explaining it to the others. No, that devil would rather us wallow in his stupid blunders and outright lies than give up an ounce of his own control. He’d rather corrupt the minds of impressionable students and lead us away from Lado’s cause than admit he was wrong. Tell me, Peter, is that Marxist? Is that the collective spirit of the workers? You know damn well it isn’t. That scoundrel doesn’t understand anything. He’s against our … everything! You know it would be a blessing if he were kicked out of school.”
Kapanadze sits back on his heels and lets his hands sink into his lap. He looks at his squatting companion with an open combination of bafflement and disgust.
“The second Devdariani loses control, he’ll knife his best friend in the balls. I’m absolutely sure of it. He’s a collaborator and a criminal. And the same goes for that shit Parkadze. Time will prove me right. Someone should kick them in the head!”
“Koba, please, that’s nonsense!”
Soso’s wide smile exposes his clean white teeth—unlikely pieces of perfection in an otherwise scarred and ruined face. “Go ahead and stay with Devdariani’s discussion group, you miserable fool,” he says. “You’ll be in for a real surprise.”
Soso leisurely leans his weight onto his right hand and nibbles his left hand’s pinky with unrestrained pleasure, his pinched eyes nothing but slits, fanning wrinkles. His joy is wide and pure. He chuckles and spits a piece of chewed fingernail onto Kapanadze’s bed. Kapanadze opens his mouth but finds himself deprived of words.
“Or, if you’d prefer, you can join us tomorrow in study period for an honest exploration of the text. The decision is yours, friend. All yours!”
Soso whacks Kapanadze on the back, stands, and returns to his bunk. He winks at Vano and Iremashvili but doesn’t look back. The other students watch as Soso closes his eyes and lets his expression fade into serenity, kneeling by the side of his bed, hands locked in prayer. His lips are moving rapidly, but no sound comes from his throat. No one is fooled into thinking that Soso believes in prayer.
Kapanadze takes a moment to wonder if Soso would really do it, and then suddenly he is sure. Yes, Soso would tell the Archimandrite and the Inspector everything; he would betray every single member of that discussion group, just to get b
ack at Seid Devdariani.
There’s an itchy patch of skin where Soso has hit Kapanadze’s back. He’s been hit much harder than this countless times, in the organized brawls of his hometown, but the reverberations from this blow have special power, and they continue inside his chest as if he were nothing but hulled-out skin, less a human being than an empty drum. I’m bigger than that runt, he thinks. I could march across this dormitory right now with everybody watching, pound his pockmarked face, and wrestle his skinny, long-legged body right to the floor. Although he knows it’s true, Kapanadze’s legs feel flaccid and weak; he doesn’t trust that his muscles are capable of lifting his skeleton off the ground. His cavernous stomach, certainly too enormous to fit inside his body, might even be protruding through a hole in his spine. The vacuum in his guts has pulled his brain into darkness; he’s been turned inside out. Kapanadze has never been punished by the Inspector, has never been cast by the wolf’s ticket into the darkness of solitary, but he can imagine the stifling claustrophobia of blindness, the anguish of gnawing hunger and interminable boredom interspersed with episodes of real fear. The Okhrana’s prisons are even more horrible places, aren’t they? Labyrinths of black rooms worked by fearsome men. Week-long tortures that put the seminary’s petty denials to shame. The authorities won’t be lenient with another reported disturbance originating with the seminarians. The next round of agitators will not get off with simple banishment, as Lado Ketskhoveli did. Kapanadze’s legs melt into the floor. Where is his will to stand?
His terror and paralysis will continue tomorrow evening, when his chair is pulled into a semicircle in the corner of the room opposite Devdariani’s noticeably smaller discussion group. His back will recall the reverberating thud of Soso’s hand against it, and all the emptiness that thud implied. He will sit there in the circle, fumbling with the frayed cotton of his favourite shirt, beside Iremashvili and Vano Ketskhoveli, as gleeful Soso Djugashvili outlines the major points of Darwin’s Descent of Man. And when Soso condescendingly asks, with a good deal of mirth and mockery, “What have you learned today?” Kapanadze knows he will bow his head with the politeness he usually reserves for priests and inspectors and hear his own foreign voice echoing in reply, “That man’s instincts, which are often the same as animals’, but only differing in degree, make him quite susceptible to the same forces of nature as other creatures.” And Kapanadze will wonder: Why this colourless tone, this perfect repetition of Soso’s dry phrasing, so diligently memorized and copied like a parrot? Is this how I sound? Am I really nothing other than a drum? Kapanadze will never feel emptier. But then Soso’s yellow, tigrine eyes will be directed his way, and Kapanadze will feel a surge of real pleasure—base and simple pleasure, pure animal relief—because Soso, nodding and laughing and pointing at him, will say with glee: “Yes, Kapanadze! I think you’re finally catching the spirit of our collective!”
The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers Page 13
