‘I’m sorry. You amuse me.’
‘Oh, splendid. At least one of us is in a good mood.’
‘Do you ride?’
‘What?’
‘I said: do you ride?’
‘Yes, of course I ride.’
‘Side-saddle, I presume?’
‘I prefer astride.’
‘Excellent! Would you venture on a ride across the steppe with me tomorrow?’
‘I have a ballet lesson tomorrow.’
‘I can wait for you.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Or are you afraid?’
‘What would I be afraid of? Certainly not of you.’
‘It’s agreed, then?’
‘Listen: I don’t know what my father has told you about me. But it’s bound to be untrue. I don’t know what he’s promised you, but I’m certain I am unable to give you that, either. I will happily risk your anger, and my father’s, but I have no intention of deceiving you. I will not love you. Why are you laughing again?’
‘You’re even better than your father’s description of you.’
‘What has he promised you?’
‘Nothing. He just said that I might visit you from time to time.’
‘So that later on I’ll marry you and won’t be permitted to dance any more?’
‘So that we can get to know each other.’
‘You’re much older. It’s inappropriate.’
‘I’m twenty-nine.’
‘You’re still much older. Twelve years is a big age gap.’
‘I look very young.’
‘You know nothing whatsoever about ballet.’
‘I saw you dance at the private performance at Mikeladze’s.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘You were quite good.’
‘Quite good? I was very good.’
‘Perhaps. After all, you just said I know nothing about it.’
‘Well, every layman has the right to an opinion.’
‘Oh, how generous of you.’
‘You don’t have a moustache.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘It’s not the done thing.’
‘According to the latest fashion, it is.’
‘I’m very conservative.’
‘That’s not my impression.’
‘You don’t know me.’
‘I saw you when you were fourteen, listening to the Maxim brothers’ violin concert. We sat side by side, and you were so moved that you wept, and you wiped away your tears with the sleeves of your dress. You didn’t use a silk handkerchief. I liked that. And then you stormed out of the concert hall. And, months later, I saw you at the circus that pitched its big top up there in the hills. And you were eating a baked apple and licking your fingers. You didn’t use a silk handkerchief. Which is the done thing. And later I saw you at the New Year’s ball, your first ball, given by the mayor. You were enchanting, dancing your first dance, but your partner was an idiot, incapable of leading you. He kept treading on your feet, and every time he did you pulled a face. You came out and wiped the little pearls of sweat from your brow with the edge of your dress. No silk handkerchief. Then you sat down on the stone steps and looked up at the sky. And I decided it was time I got to know you.’
‘Why should I want to get to know you?’
‘Because I’m another one who never uses a handkerchief.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Someone who needs a veil, an object, even one made of silk, between themselves and the world is afraid of life. They’re afraid to experience things, to really feel them. And I think life is far too short and far too wonderful not to really look at it, not to really grab it, not to really live it.’
‘By which you’re trying to say that we are similar?’
‘No, I just think that we have a similar attitude to life.’
‘Nonetheless, I am not going to marry you and move with you to Moscow.’
‘I’m not in Moscow. I’m here.’
‘You serve the Russians, and I don’t like Russians. They say that soon there will be uprisings. That things are unsettled in Russia. There are rumours. Anyway, Papa went to Russia, too, and brought his wife back here with him when he married the second time. I know how things work in this world.’
‘And how do they work?’
‘Not exactly to the advantage of us women, shall we say?’
‘A real bluestocking, then.’
‘Now what are you talking about?’
‘In Europe, there are women who believe they are equal to men. And who fight for these rights. Bluestockings, they’re called.’
‘And they’re right to fight. But it’s a very stupid name, in my opinion.’
‘In that case, we can go on a proper ride across the steppe. Then we can see just how equal men and women are.’
‘I don’t believe they are equal. I believe women are better.’
‘Better still. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’
‘Wait … You don’t even know where I take my ballet classes.’
‘I’ll find you. And send my best wishes to your father. No need to see me out. A truly emancipated lady should always remain seated.’
‘A what lady?’
‘One who fights for her rights.’
He left the room, with quick, light steps and a mischievous grin. Stasia remained seated, as if turned to stone, unable to believe what had just occurred. It wasn’t permitted to like your executioner; it wasn’t permitted to flirt with him. It wasn’t permitted to offer him more sacrifices than were necessary. It wasn’t permitted to go riding with him. And then she laughed aloud. The rain had stopped and the flowers were springing up out of the earth. Life was everywhere again, with its sweet multitude of promises. Stasia opened the door to the garden and ran out. The earth was damp and her feet got stuck in the mud, but that didn’t stop her from dancing a pas de deux in the sodden garden.
*
They met and rode across the steppe, both of them astride. I’m sure she looked incredibly graceful and self-assured. She had started learning to ride when she was a little girl, and she loved to take the thoroughbred Kabardins out and ride them bareback. She liked to linger in the barren landscape of the steppe. The old cave city was a place she knew like the back of her hand. People were always going missing in this mysterious labyrinth of stone steps, interconnected rooms, and crannies, but Stasia always found her way back: the way out of the cave city, which had been cut into the huge mountain centuries ago at the command of the country’s powerful queen, and had now become a desolate landscape where the ghosts sang. Yes, you could hear them, if you closed your eyes tightly enough and silenced the thoughts in your own head. And I’m sure the lieutenant was even more impressed by her skill. They are sure to have talked about all kinds of things, and Stasia often challenged him to race her.
They started making plans to go riding together every day. Soon, Stasia was so enthralled by the hours they spent together on the steppe that some days she even forgot about dancing.
Of course, our seventeen-year-old Stasia had to fall in love. The White Lieutenant was delighted by Stasia’s trust, which grew day by day, ride by ride. And it was his firm belief that they would be good for each other; that he needed just such a headstrong wife — and this firm belief inevitably impressed Stasia.
Simon Jashi also admired the chocolate-maker’s family, and his affection was returned by his beloved’s father. Anastasia was to experience no resistance to her choice of husband — unlike her second-eldest sister, who, whenever she fell for a man, could always count on her father’s disapproval. The White Lieutenant, by contrast, seemed to be Papa’s first choice.
And since these were troubled times, and one never knew w
hich way the wind would blow, one had to act quickly. Even in matters of the heart.
*
The White Lieutenant had attended a cadet school in St Petersburg, when the St Petersburg of delightful balls and sweet French accents still existed. He had fought only briefly in Russia’s war with Japan, where he was wounded, promoted to lieutenant, and sent back to his homeland. This wound saved him from being sent to fight in the First World War. After his recovery, he was assigned to administrative duties in his sleepy little hometown, where he analysed war correspondence.
Simon did not rush to request a transfer. The political situation was unfathomable, and he was insufficiently resolute; never in his life had he been able to feel at home with an ideology that would determine his onward path.
At that time, innumerable ideologies and political groups were springing up out of the ground every day like mushrooms, in little attic rooms, canteen cellars, and flats overlooking dingy courtyards, and all of them believed they had discovered the solution to every problem, or knew precisely how to guarantee a rosy future for the downtrodden Russian people.
Simon came from a good middle-class family: his father, a respected doctor, had made sure his son received a good education. Influenced at an early age by liberal, democratic ideas, as a young man he had made contact with the liberals in the military circles of his cadet school, and had even been to a few meetings. But at the same time he had realised that, if it were to come to the crunch, the liberals seemed too weak and not nearly purposeful enough to withstand a serious threat, such as that represented by socialism. And Simon could also see that the socialists were always louder, always more demanding and fearless. All kinds of conspiracy theories and legends circulated about the party’s ringleaders, the majority of whom had already been imprisoned or had moved abroad.
Simon had little sympathy with the socialists; they were too primitive, too unrefined, too loud for his middle-class ears, but at the same time he didn’t want to end up on the wrong side. He had to act. He had to decide, but he was still too hesitant: events were not transparent enough, there were still too many possibilities.
He had already come into contact with a few ideas at the front, and, having been wounded and ordered back to his hometown, he started a circle for ‘the study of the philosophical writings of the Ancient Greeks’ in the hope that, together with others who were confused and searching for answers, he would find some knowledge that would take him further. Simon Jashi felt himself to be neither a reformer nor a revolutionary. As a soldier loyal to the authorities, he served the military unquestioningly, along with its clear hierarchies, discipline, and division of duties. He loved clear structures and regulated relationships, in which everyone knew exactly where they stood. Simon was a rational man. He was gallant, tractable, rather morose, and thoughtful by nature, not a man of burning ideas and deeds. He also had nothing against the tsars, though he might have had a little sympathy for the peasants, as was proper for the authorities at that time.
But one notable characteristic may have recommended him to the chocolate-maker as a good match for his daughter: Simon was a sentimental man, and a great devotee of the past. He loved Pushkin’s Russia; he dreamed of the great Napoleonic balls, grew downright maudlin at Swan Lake. In my great-great-grandfather’s eyes, his heart was warmed by everything connected to the divinely appointed king, the tsar, and thus to a clearly structured world.
This must have been a very idiosyncratic and peculiar attitude for such a young man at the time, but it chimed perfectly with my great-great-grandfather’s worldview. Simon’s heart belonged to Old Russia, to the European elite, and the lovely, glittering life of the good old days — or rather, what he imagined these to be.
*
To my great-great-grandfather, being conscious of tradition meant living according to the values of the elite: displaying modesty and excellent manners, and being neither too hedonistic nor too puritanical. And knowing exactly which layer of society was created for which purpose, and which people in society had to occupy which places. Great-Great-Grandfather stemmed from the impoverished minor Georgian nobility. He had completed a confectionary apprenticeship at a high-class spa hotel in the Crimea, rising quickly from apprentice to head of the chocolaterie. His skill had enabled him to attract the regular custom of a lot of rich aristocrats, whose patronage he enjoyed, and, thanks to their support, he was eventually able to spend two years in Budapest with a master chocolatier, who had previously worked for the royal household in Vienna.
My great-great-grandfather gathered experiences from all over Europe. He toured some excellent patisseries in western Europe, and yet, contrary to his employers’ expectations, he decided to return to his homeland and start a business of his own.
He had — and unfortunately I am not in possession of any verifiable information about where exactly he developed his incomparable chocolate — discovered a magical secret formula, and had a recipe in his pocket that would revolutionise the taste of hot chocolate.
*
At this point, the recipe — or rather, the hot chocolate resulting from it — should be introduced as one of the principal characters in our story, Brilka.
As, unfortunately, I may not reveal the ingredients of the drink (under no circumstances, no way, never, never, never), I have to find words to describe the indescribable. And, unfortunately, I also don’t know whether my great-great-grandfather derived this recipe from somebody else or developed it himself. He guarded it like a secret of war. But one thing is certain: on his return home, he already had the guarantee for his future success in his pocket (at that point, nothing was known of the side-effects of his magic chocolate).
For now, it was a recipe for a simple Viennese-style hot chocolate. This meant that the base was chocolate, not cocoa. First the chocolate was manufactured, then it was melted and mixed with other ingredients.
But something in the mixture and the preparation made this chocolate special, unique, irresistible, startling. The very scent of it was so enticing and so intense that one couldn’t help hurrying towards its source.
The chocolate was thick, syrupy, and black as the night before a heavy storm. It was consumed in small portions, hot, but not too hot, in small cups, and — ideally — with silver spoons.
The taste was incomparable: savouring it was like a spiritual ecstasy, a supernatural experience. You melted into the sweet mass, you became one with this delicious discovery, you forgot the world around you, and felt a unique sense of bliss. As soon as you tasted this chocolate, everything was exactly as it should be.
My great-great-grandfather returned home from Budapest with this secret recipe in his pocket. He was proud of what he had achieved, and he believed it was possible to bring the gallantry and exquisite tastes of Paris or Vienna to the Georgian provinces, and change the tastes of the people there.
Following his return, he married a pupil from the Holy Mother of God convent school, a pious and taciturn woman named Ketevan, who had what one might call melancholic tendencies. She didn’t care two figs for the Russian Empire, thought Russia’s annexation of Georgia the most disastrous mistake in the whole of Georgian history, and all her life refused to speak Russian. He had fallen in love with her; it was not an arranged marriage, but unfortunately it was not a happy one, either. She espoused different values; she saw Russia as the origin of all evil, while my great-great-grandfather viewed Russia as an opportunity for Georgia, and believed it was the Russians who had first given the Caucasus access to world culture, combating the illiteracy among Georgia’s population and the greed of its minor aristocracy. He was pro-tsarist, and enjoyed all the privileges that his collaborateur lifestyle afforded. His wife, however, never tired of claiming that Georgia was nothing more than a colony, and that the Slavic culture was the downfall of the Caucasian.
‘We ourselves called on our great neighbour — we invited him here,’ my great-great-grandfather told
his wife in the first months of their marriage, in an attempt to change her mind.
‘We invited them as helpers, not occupiers,’ Ketevan retorted. ‘Our king was exhausted by all the occupations and raids by our Muslim neighbours. He couldn’t see any other way out, and when he asked the tsar to sign a protection treaty he was choosing what, in his view, was the lesser of two evils. A protection treaty, with the emphasis on protection. If I might remind you.’
‘Yes, but, my love, in practice it still meant that, from then on, we were subject to the great Russian Empire, and our king knew that when he brought the Russians into the country.’
‘Certainly, my dear, but he probably didn’t know that our northern neighbour would accept this invitation not for a few years, but for a few centuries.’
Ketevan refused to be beaten.
‘I think it is wrong, my love, always to take the image of David and Goliath and use it as a parable for our country. I think that, in so doing, we make it very easy for ourselves. Too many Georgians have benefited from it, Ketevan; you surely must agree with that!’
‘In this country, assimilation is always feigned, and at the core of this assimilation you always find a longing for what belongs to us alone. I speak of true Georgians and not of traitors,’ replied Ketevan, casting a scornful glance at her husband.
Ketevan barely involved herself in my great-great-grandfather’s business. She was good at managing the household and knew how to present herself in society, and she bore him two daughters. But the couple’s love and affection for each other was extinguished, at the latest, after the birth of their second daughter. Ketevan dedicated herself to piety, praying, and maintaining good relationships with the Church and the priests, while her husband opened his shop, The Chocolaterie, which everyone always called ‘the chocolate factory’, with my great-great-grandfather known only as the ‘chocolate-maker’. The business flourished, sales rose from one year to the next, and the chocolate-maker’s reputation was established.
He was disappointed that his wife didn’t value his success and seemed to make no use at all of the family’s social and financial privileges, or to enjoy their increasing prosperity. He had looked for the same support and encouragement from her that he got from others. Five years after his return, he was running a patisserie that was famed throughout the town, and planning branches all over the country; later, he hoped, at the pinnacle of his success, he would be able to supply the whole of the tsar’s empire with the very best chocolate products.
The Eighth Life Page 4
