He found himself struggling against a tide of people, great men, small men, lean men, brawny men, brown men, white men, gray men, tawny men, grave old plodders, gay young friskers. Burnell stood in a doorway and let them flow by. Behind the mob marched a more organized one, the Army of the West Georgian Republic in file of threes, led by Ziviad Orpishurda. And bringing up the rear marched Jim Irving, head held high.
Burnell fell in with them, tightening his grip on the shoulder-strap of his pack and instinctively picking up on the step.
“I’ll bet it wasn’t like this on the Moon!”
“You’ve got to get out of here, Roy. Orpishurda agrees. He can’t guarantee what will happen if the Dead One carries out his threat to shoot the mayor.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I’m just an observer. I’ll continue with the column to the Black Sea, I guess. If there’s no mutiny. If things get really bad, I can always call up a chopper to airlift me out.”
“And God? As before?”
Irving looked at Burnell with his grave gray-blue eyes. Burnell smiled apologetically, thinking that here, after all, was a good man. Maybe good men were always comic to the trivial-minded. Certainly Jim Irving had the measure of Burnell’s self-indulgent nature. His greed at the banquet, the wallow in the brothel—these were known to Irving, were accepted, but pained him nevertheless. “God may provide a chopper if it suits his plan,” Irving agreed, with his smile.
Perhaps only a saint or a lunatic could still trust in his lunar vision: that somehow it was possible for mankind to live less miserably—even when he had returned to a world that believed no such thing.
Ploshchad Dimbarza was already filling with the able-bodied of Bogdanakhi. The “Emperor” had been faded down. Most of the men were slung about with weaponry; many had with them dogs on leashes as savage-looking as themselves, as if attending a “Bring Back the Neanderthals” demonstration. It was much like a cattle market, except that these cattle added shouting and cursing to the jostling. Jeeps of Russian manufacture rumbled forward, headlights glaring back at the sun. Across the bridge spanning the Tskavani came a line of tanks bedecked with branches of trees, bullying their way forward amid crowds which reluctantly gave way. Over the crackle of the loudspeakers came a crackle of bullets from a distant part of town: rehearsals for the real thing were in progress.
Before Burnell and Irving diverged, the latter announced he had a parting present. “I’m glad to see you don’t pack a gun, although Ghvtismshobeli is out in the wilds. Ziviad said the church is wired off, so you might need these. They’re good and sharp.”
He produced a pair of wire-cutters. As he handed them over, he saluted. Burnell thanked him awkwardly, and tucked them in one of the rear pockets of the ginger trousers. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Hope so. God be with you.” Burnell put out a hand. Smiling, Irving shook it.
Burnell jumped on to a low stone wall and surveyed the crowd. His eye was caught by a gaunt man in black, waving to him from beside the bridge. He knew intuitively that this must be the priest who had volunteered to lead him to Ghvtismshobeli. He elbowed his way through the throng to the bridge.
The Moon had one attraction. It was less crowded.
9
A Head Among the Throng
The priest stood out from the mob as a film star stands out from a crowd of extras. Though not exceptionally tall, he was exceptionally thin, to the extent of appearing to have no stomach or buttocks. This boardlike aspect was emphasized by a black habit, which trailed almost to the ground. Over this he wore what had until recently been a sheep, or at least half a sheep. It still smelt of the dead animal. His hair was long and dark, though he had long since passed life’s meridian, such as it was; his hair seemed to enjoy a luxury denied the rest of the priest’s anatomy, spilling over at back and at front, exuberantly. Two bulging hyperthyroid eyes summed up Burnell with a melancholy scrutiny. They seemed to say, and his mouth was in total agreement, “Here’s another sinner, as bad as the rest, and foreign with it.”
He clasped his hands together rather than offering either one of them, and introduced himself as Father Nolin Kadredin. To pronounce the final syllables of his name, he pulled back his lips to show a few black teeth, coffin-shaped in receding gums. He addressed Burnell in French as he proclaimed his delight in being permitted to guide the Englishman to the Holy Church of the Mother of God.
After Burnell had made appreciative remarks, he was introduced to the youth who stood slightly to Father Kadredin’s rear. This was the appointed gunman, an overgrown lad of fourteen, by name Khachi. Khachi was dressed in drab shorts and immense black boots. His arms were tattooed with women and spaceships. Over his T-shirt he had slung what was presumably the other half of Kadredin’s sheep, fleece inwards. To make himself look more bloodthirsty, he had tied a red kerchief round his forehead. He was further burdened with a large pack and a Kalashnikov. When introduced, he seemed to take an immediate dislike to Burnell, swaggering round him twice and sneering, with sound effects, to show contempt for Burnell’s unarmed state, or possibly the ginger trousers.
“Is the boy your—er, um, acolyte? You are a priest of the Orthodox Church, Father?” Burnell asked.
“No more,” said Kadredin, in a deep voice, bowing his head in such a way that made it uncertain which of the questions he was answering, if any.
An interesting and complex character, said Burnell to himself. Just what I need.
“Are you prepared to leave immediately?” Burnell asked. As he spoke, however, Beethoven was cut off in mid-bar, to be replaced by a booming voice. Although Burnell understood hardly a word of the Georgian language except kargi, he apprehended the effects of the announcement. With an amount of nonpacific shouting, the West Georgian Republican Army formed up to make a living avenue from the platform in the center of the square to the main street leading from it. They clearly understood that Kaginovich, the Dead One, would approach from this direction with his prisoner, Mayor Sigua, the About-to-be-Dead One.
At the same time, citizens and soldiers faithful to Sigua formed up on the other side of the platform, swinging their weapons into the ready position, ominously clicking off safety catches. How Kaginovich would deal with this lethal situation, Burnell could not guess; nor did he want to stay and see. His life had in the main been spent in quiet places, up towers, measuring tombs, or slung in cradles photographing roof bosses. He wanted to get away from the smell of violence. But Father Kadredin clasped his shoulder, made a perfunctory gesture of raising finger to lips, and said, “Peace.”
As if in obedience to the priest’s injunction, silence fell in the square. Directly across from where Burnell, the priest, and the gunman stood was the grandiose building which housed the mayor’s offices. Double doors leading on to the balcony over the main entrance were thrown open with a crash. All heads turned in that direction.
It was twelve o’clock. A bugler marched smartly on to the balcony and sounded a call. He then retired. The balcony was momentarily empty.
Lazar Kaginovich himself appeared.
Greeting him came a rumble like an approaching avalanche. It issued from the throats of the crowd. The rumble ascended the scale, lost its unanimity, and broke into individual shouts of hatred or support.
“Murderer!” screamed a woman nearby.
Kaginovich made no attempt to speak. For a moment he remained motionless on the balcony. His pale death’s head looked as if it never spoke. The crowd fell silent. Kaginovich raised high his right arm. By this action he exposed to everyone’s view the prize exhibit he clutched by the hair. It was the freshly severed head of Mayor Tenguiz Sigua. He had duped everyone.
Sigua’s eyes stared blindly ahead, feasting their sight on oblivion. Sigua’s bearded jaw hung open. Sigua’s torn throat dripped. Sigua’s face was little paler than Kaginovich’s.
“Sigua!” A roar from the crowd.
Kaginovich allowed them only a brief glimpse of his gruesome troph
y. Time to identify it, no more. Then with demonic force he hurled it into the throng below.
Before it struck, he backed away and was gone from the balcony. Such was the shock value of his appearance that no man, not his most relentless enemy, would have had the wits to take aim and fire at him.
Fighting began in the square immediately.
“Allons!” said Father Kadredin, nudging Burnell.
He ran on his long skirted legs across the bridge, his robe rippling about him. Burnell followed, and the boy with the firepower followed Burnell. On the far side of the Tskavani they ran between houses down a filthy side alley. Over refuse and ordure they skipped. A mangy dog fled in fear, yelping. Firing sounded from the square behind them.
The priest led them into a house in a back street. They stood in a kitchen where a hound was tied to a table leg. The gunman fondled the animal and in general showed signs of being better intentioned than had hitherto been the case. Whose house it was, Burnell did not discover. Thankfully, he accepted water from a small cistern by the sink, and regained his breath.
“What will happen?” he asked Kadredin in his formal French. “Will the people accept the rule of Captain Kaginovich?”
“Sigua allowed the people of Bogdanakhi no modernity. Though cruel, the Dead One will give them what they want.”
“Democracy?”
“Cable TV. VR. EMV.”
“Nintendos,” supplemented the gunman, catching his master’s drift.
The church of Ghvtismshobeli had been built at a distance from habitation. At first their way led along the valley, through vineyards. They passed a burnt-out tank. No one was about; all had gone into town to see the execution. On isolated houses, propitiatory slogans had been painted, large in red paint: “long live the republic” was evidently the safest slogan. It would serve as republics came and went, and vineyards remained.
Houses became more infrequent as they started to climb. They entered forests of oak and beech, following a faltering trail. Once they encountered three desperate-looking men on emaciated horses. The boy gunman handled his Kalashnikov ostentatiously. The riders passed by without a word.
“Mm, horses would be good,” said the priest. “Do you ride?”
“I used to.”
They saved their breath for the climb.
Compensating for the steepness of the ascent, the views became more generous. Where the trees fell away, they could see back to Bogdanakhi, could see the gleam of the railway line and the serpentine glitter of the river. Happiness filled Burnell. Difficulties there might be; meanwhile there was the beauty and freedom of the world to enjoy. He wondered why Jim Irving, in search of God, had found Him on the barren Moon rather than here, where the abundance of nature suggested that a good-hearted deity might indeed have decided to show what He was made of.
As they climbed, all three assisting their knees by pressing down with their hands, Burnell recalled a legendary tale a drunk had told him in Tbilisi. He smiled to himself.
When the world was being parceled out among the various nations, God gave to each nation according to its deserts, which was why the Russians got Siberia and the Arabs a load of barren sand. The Georgians didn’t show up at all, because they were all away enjoying a huge celebratory banquet. When they arrived at God’s place next morning, rather hung over, they were too late. God had given all the land away.
“Sorry,” God said. “Never mind,” said the Georgians, “we’re just about to throw another party. Come along with us, God, and forget your sorrows.” So God went with them, and had such a good time and got so merry that when it was His turn to give a toast, He announced that He had been keeping the very best bit of the world for himself. He had called it “Georgia” after an old flame; an old sweet song kept her on His mind. But they could have the land. So they accepted and moved in.
As God was leaving, the Georgians called out, “Hey, where are You going to live?” And the Almighty replied, hand on door latch, “I’m just going to pop out for a million years. So you lot will have to look after yourselves.”
And looking after themselves was what the Georgians had had to do ever since.
As the sun was sinking, Father Kadredin led them to a dilapidated wooden house, behind which several goats were tethered. They were greeted by an old lame woman dressed in black, looking much like a witch in a fairy tale, with a long nose and a long chin and only a line of whiskers to keep them apart. The priest addressed her respectfully as “Babo.” She took them in and immediately made a fuss of Khachi, the gunman, removing his kerchief to stroke his head and pouring him a bowl of goat’s milk.
The old biddy was bent double with rheumatics. As she moved back and forth across her room, it was arguable whether the creaking came from her bones or the boards underfoot. Nevertheless, she was sprightly enough to hobble quickly away from Burnell. As they seated themselves at her table that evening, the priest said she was afraid of foreigners. “Babo” served them wine and a tough bread called lavash, together with a large goat’s cheese. The priest thanked her and blessed her.
In answer to a question Kadredin posed over supper, Burnell told him of the WACH interest in recording for future preservation the church they were heading for. From reticence he said nothing of the ikon, the Madonna of Futurity.
“The Church of the Mother of God is ancient,” said Kadredin, with a cheek full of lavash. “Many myths attach to it—myths involving the history of Transcaucasia as well as the Word of God. But you are interested only in the fabric, is that so?”
“Professionally, yes.” The wine was wonderfully rough and rich. He raised his cup to old “Babo” and drank. “Jos!”
“The fabric, hah! The outside show. Of the histories, the sacred nature of the church as House of God, you care nothing, n’est-ce pas?”
“I understand that during the years of Communist rule the church was closed. It became derelict, didn’t it? No one cared even for the fabric then. Who cares for it now? Only, as far as I can see, World Antiquities and Cultural Heritage.”
“No, no, is incorrect.” He tossed back his unruly hair in denial. “Many of us care. But we have no means while the world is in such turmoil. We are so poor.” He exposed the blackened teeth, breathing deep. He took only a sip of his wine. “Why does not the EU help Georgia? This old woman here, she is Miss Georgia, a symbol of how we have all become. Why do they leave us in such a terrible state? They care for the fabric of this church, yes, but what about our people and our terrible poverty? Why cannot we join the EU?”
Burnell saw that there might be a long evening ahead. He drank more deeply. The old woman came with a candle and placed it in the center of the table. The flickering light increased the depth of the shadows gathering about them. Khachi said nothing. At the back of the house, the goats cried aloud to the Moon.
While not wishing to quarrel with the lanky priest, Burnell would not let his questions pass unchallenged. With a chunk of the harsh bread halfway to his mouth, he said, “The abuse of human rights in this part of the world, such as I have myself witnessed, precludes any possibility of Georgia joining the EU. That’s quite apart from other factors.”
“Why does this man Stalinbrass come to our country? He kills too.”
Ignoring this, Burnell said, “For the rest, my advice would be for you to help yourselves, and cease blaming the outside world. It is never sufficiently recognized that the epidemic of Communism includes the painful convalescence of Post-Communismitis. Somehow, you will get through that phase. You must not destroy your own infrastructure. The patient must be his own doctor.”
“Without wishing to be impolite, sir, you drink of Babo’s wine too much. Such nonsense could be spoken only by those who have not suffered under repressive regimes. I take it you are not yourself religious?”
Burnell regarded the long face with its protruding eyes and the hank of hair hanging over the forehead. It was a striking physiognomy. He was prepared to like it. But liking that particular question was a
nother matter. He delayed answer while he tore off another mouthful of bread and cheese.
“Religion has nothing to do with economics, or with the questions you raise. I am an atheist, Father. I find the world’s various beliefs in various gods—well, misguided.”
Kadredin continued to masticate, moving his wad of half-chewed bread from one cheek to the other.
Then he said, “Faith is man’s greatest gift. What do you offer in place of faith?”
Smiling, Burnell leaned forward, elbows on table. This was an argument through which he knew his way.
“The times are always troublous. What is faith, Father, tell me? Isn’t it just a belief that can’t be moved in something that can’t be proved?”
A long conversation was launched. Kadredin looked miserable as he defended a faith he professed to have lost. Nor was Burnell as sure of his case as he pretended, for the fact remained, as he was aware, that he had nothing to offer in place of the religious impulse. For all their private reservations, both men enjoyed debate, speaking for the most part in low tones. The young gunman moved from the table, to listen to a small portable radio, which he jammed against his ear as he munched his food. The old woman sat on a box, staring vacantly into space, breathing noisily through her mouth.
Though a moon was rising, the Georgian night was so dark that the single window reflected the candle on the table and the faces of the two men, talking and talking.
Burnell was teasing the priest, who claimed that God was mighty and grieved to see the divisions among humans. Burnell asked how God got on with Allah and Baal and Mithras and the Homeric gods.
Kadredin replied that such questions refuted themselves by their own foolishness. So it went. Every so often, the old woman would recollect herself, cross the creaking floor, and refill their cups with the strong wine.
Somewhere East of Life Page 14
