Somewhere East of Life

by Brian W Aldiss

  He burst into tears. He covered his great eyes with his papery hands. His body shook with sobs. He fell to his knees on the stony ground.

  Thought Burnell, “This is one better than being shot. Well, three-quarters.”

  The moon was setting but the lad produced a torch. The three of them went into the church.

  Kadredin, afflicted by one of his sudden mood changes, was now shouting and laughing. Oh yes, they could have an agreement. He would trust Burnell rather than his bishop. The bishop had cheated him over his living. The bishop didn’t trust him or he the bishop. He clapped his hands—the bishop would see!

  Khachi tugged at Kadredin’s cassock, speaking urgently. Still suspicious, Burnell asked what the lad said.

  “Oh, he wants to go to bed. Ignore him!”

  He went on to declare his relief. Now all would be fine. Burnell would take the ikon back to Germany. As an expert, he would see that it reached a maximum price at auction. The Alte Pinakothek in München would purchase it. They would share the profit, sixty for him, forty for Burnell—OK, fifty-fifty, why not? And he would be able to live out the rest of his miserable life in decency. God was good. At last he had some hope for the future.

  But then again—he clasped Burnell’s hands. How could he trust anyone? Even an Englishman? Everyone stole from Georgians, and from priests most of all. Once Burnell was away with the precious article, he would forget his poor friend Father Nolin Kadredin.

  As soon as daylight came, he would draw up an agreement. Both would sign it. He would keep it. If Burnell tried to cheat, then Kadredin would send the document to WACH and ruin the thief’s career. The world would denounce Burnell and God would strike him down for a thief.

  “But you stole it, you fraud. Isn’t that the situation?”

  “Long ago, m’sieu, when I was young and wicked. Before I had God in my heart.” He spoke loudly, perhaps in the hope that God would be listening, and the words echoed nobly round the church.

  “How long ago is that?”

  “Many years… When I was in charge here, of course, in Gamsakhurdia’s day. When do you think? When I was alone and subject to temptation. What do you know about such things, being an atheist? It’s on my conscience, very heavy.” The long face in its large-eyed innocence could have adorned a fresco: Burnell could almost see something in the style of El Greco, with the dimpled feet of angels fluttering within an ace of his ears.

  “Come on. You’ll keep your sin and get rid of your Madonna, and profit from both… Where is this damned article?”

  “Please understand, Dr. Burnell. We must be straight with each other. Oh, I could kill myself—throw myself to drown in the lake, if it wasn’t for respect for Queen Simonis… When you send me my sixty percent share from Frankfurt, I can live decently with my son Khachi, not in Bogdanakhi but somewhere peaceful.”

  “Oh, so Khachi’s your son, is he?”

  “I fondly believe so, sir. With that sixty-five per cent, I can take him to Athens, fair and beautiful Athena! There I’ll have a room of my own, where I may think of God and gaze out at the Adriatic.”

  “The Aegean.”

  “That also.” He started to whine again. Having wrung Burnell’s hands, he commenced on his own. In all his miserable days, he said, Burnell represented his first chance to deal with someone professionally connected with the Western world of art. That was why he trusted him implicitly. Burnell was famous, having written a book no one understood. So he could ruin Burnell’s career if he did not honor their agreement.

  All this while, Khachi stood by, playing his fingers along his machine gun as if it were a keyboard, in time to the music.

  “So where is this work of art? Let’s see it.”

  Again the stern priest, stern and just, yet agonized. “I’ve changed my mind. I can’t trust anyone. My whole life depends on this one gamble. You will see the ikon in the morning, when you have signed the agreement.”

  They passed out through the narthex door, above which King Zrze still offered up his model church to the Virgin.

  The morning appeared surprisingly bright and unnatural. He suspected angels. Khachi was at work in the courtyard. A fire was blazing there, where a Land Rover was parked. The youth had killed a deer and was busy cutting it up with a huge knife. His movements were stylized. The knife went over his head and down, over and down. The process smothered him with blood, until he was red from head to foot. Burnell was haunted by a feeling of premonition.

  “I’m glad you’re not after my blood,” he said, approaching the youth.

  For answer, Khachi showed him a face as savage as Lazar Kaginovich’s. It was Lazar Kaginovich’s. He rushed up to the cupola on the Church and aimed his gun. Burnell was staring down its black muzzle when he woke, startled.

  There was comfort to find himself still alive in his improvised bed, yet he experienced disappointment. He was reminded of Greek plays where all the violence took place off-stage. Daylight was filling the small cell, revealing the crumbling plaster. It was time for Act V. He got up, semi-eager to play his role through, more eager to examine the ikon, if it really existed.

  Kadredin and his gunman son were by the lake. In an echo of the unpleasant dream, Khachi had a fire going. Kadredin was playing an open air role against a background of lake and trees. Approaching Burnell with his arms full of sticks, he said proudly, “Fish for our breakfast to celebrate, m’sieu. Then the agreement, then the famous Madonna. You see that clever Khachi has caught trout by tickling?”

  Dropping the sticks, he demonstrated the art of tickling with his hands. “Patience and cunning—that’s how trout are caught. They will come to your hand under the bank to enjoy a little tickle. And when you have them entranced, when you hear them purr like cats, then—whoosh!—you hurl them quickly from the water on to dry land. And there’s your meal.”

  Having no wish to become Kadredin’s meal, Burnell made a neutral comment. But the fish, roasted over the fire, were certainly tasty. Afterwards, they went into the refectory where an agreement was drawn up.

  Now the priest was a lawyer, very businesslike with his phraseology. The agreement, which both men signed, bound Burnell to get the best market price for the celebrated twelfth-century ikon known as the Madonna of Futurity. It should be sold within a year. Fifty percent of the receipts would be despatched within seven days to Father Kadredin, by registered post, to a specific address in Bogdanakhi. Kadredin, for his part, would maintain silence until after the sale. He agreed to send Burnell a receipt for the money by registered post. This agreement was drawn up on a page torn from Burnell’s black notebook.

  Both men agreed that their signatures should be renewed before a lawyer when they returned to Bogdanakhi, and a copy of the document deposited with him.

  Kadredin tucked the paper away in his smelly sheep garment. Once the ikon was in Burnell’s hands and he in Bogdanakhi, a helicopter would take him off to Tbilisi, as prearranged. In Tbilisi, a military plane would return him to FAM, as he had come. At this juncture, Kadredin was inclined to delay, to discuss many minor points. Burnell interrupted.

  “Enough. Show me the ikon.”

  The priest led the way to the church, his skirts flapping about his thin legs. The lad trailed behind them, toting as ever his armory. Inside, Kadredin paused as if sunk in thought, looking under his eyebrows at Burnell. Burnell maintained an aloof stance, as heraldic as that of King Zrze above his head. Sighing, the priest went over to the apse. He knelt, and tried to lift the trapdoor. This he succeeded in doing only with Burnell’s assistance and broken fingernails.

  Burnell stared down into the bones and dirt, assuming they were about to descend.

  But the ikon was concealed elsewhere. In his time as resident priest, Kadredin had hollowed out the timbers of the trapdoor. The ikon, wrapped in cloth, had been inserted into the hollow and wired securely in place. Oak laths had then been nailed over it, concealing the insertion, and the whole stained.

  Burnell pulled out his wi
re cutters and prised up the nails, while reflecting on the good sense of the hiding place; no one would look at the trapdoor while venturing down into the cellar. He repeated this observation to himself, noting its sexual implications.

  Elbowing Kadredin aside, he lifted the cloth-covered bundle from its place of concealment and unwrapped it. In a moment, he held in his hands the Madonna of Futurity.

  He carried the trophy to the door of the church to study it under a better light.

  The ikon was painted on a wooden panel measuring, he estimated, only twenty-eight centimeters by twenty-one. Yet it possessed grandeur; he was unprepared for its impact.

  Master Evtihije had painted one of the great standard subjects of the Christian Church, the Holy Mother and Child, symbols of unity and pure love. The Mother of God, dressed in a rubiginous hooded garment, held the Child tenderly in her arms, clutching one of His hands. About the Child she had wrapped a flimsy golden robe, partly covering His blue garment.

  The Son rested His face against His Mother’s cheek, regarding her lovingly. She, however, gazed beyond Him, out of the picture.

  The Virgin Mary was long-nosed and dark of countenance, with fine arched eyebrows. Her tall figure was depicted with a kind of monastic simplicity and set against an infinite golden background. The curve of her halo intersected the smaller orbit of her Babe’s halo, to emphasize their unity.

  Burnell turned the painting over in his hands, testing the wood with a fingernail. He had no doubt that this was the genuine article, eight and a half centuries old, lost for many years. It was unstained by age, except in one corner. The loving closeness of the couple had softened the stiff lines of their draperies. The Virgin’s tenderness of expression was reinforced by delicate brushwork, still as clear as if it had been painted that very day. The composition was a statement of a deep love, both divine and human. And yet… It also held a mystery. The Mother of God’s eyes as she gazed from the picture were sorrowful, her mouth pursed. Tears came to his eyes, knowing he had once been held as Jesus was held.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful… Just beautiful…” He felt the inadequacy of words. “It radiates light.”

  “You can probably get twelve million ecus for it. Twelve and a half.” Kadredin rubbed his hands. He had hardly given the ikon a glance. “Wrap it up, wrap it up carefully. Stick it in your pack. Let’s get back to town. Put it in auction as soon as you can. Ah, how I need that money! Escape! Athens!” He slapped Khachi on the back.

  “So art’s no longer to be appreciated. It has merely to appreciate.”

  “Don’t cheat me, now. We’re friends, isn’t that right? What real good is that thing to me? I’ve had enough. I’m sick of poverty, sick of anarchy, sick of the living disaster of this country of mine. I want to get out. Let’s move on, eh?”

  “All right,” Burnell said to himself, “so that’s all you care about this miraculous painting?—A meal ticket? I’ll fix you.”

  He told himself he owed General Stalinbrass nothing either. No matter what the ikon might be worth on the money market, he could perhaps keep it for himself. How it would transform his living room in the apartment in Soss City. He could look at that beautiful worried loving mother every day. Just to possess such a rare object—one he had himself discovered—would bring him more fame than anything a shoddy auction could do.

  “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go back to Bogdanakhi.”

  He found it difficult to speak. Nothing to do with religion, he told himself. But the love of a mother for her child…that’s different, fuck it.

  12

  A Crowded Stage

  They came on the approaches to Bogdanakhi late in the morning of the following day. Even from a distance, the sound of Beethoven rolled out from the public address system.

  Khachi had been acting as scout. Burnell and Kadredin made their way around the corner of a meat-processing plant. Ahead was Khachi, disarmed and held by soldiers. Others had their weapons trained on Burnell and the priest.

  “Holy Mother and all angels!” Kadredin exclaimed, as West Georgian soldiers rushed forward and seized the pair of them. They were hastily searched for guns before being marched to an APC. More soldiers dragged them into the vehicle. As it roared away, Khachi called frantically, struggling in the grip of his captors. His voice was lost in blue haze and noise.

  The crackle of rifle fire sounded as the APC headed for the city center. Heavily armed men jostled in the streets, which appeared more tumbledown than ever.

  “This means the Dead One’s still in town,” Burnell said to the priest. He received a blow across the face from the nearest soldier.

  Before reaching the main square, the vehicle swerved left and entered a narrow side street filled with people, most of them in uniform. This mob set up a hullabaloo as Burnell and Kadredin were off-loaded and made to stand on the pavement. “Death to the Nazi German swine!” called a voice.

  “I’m English, you fool,” Burnell shouted.

  “Death to the Nazi English swine!”

  They were pushed through the stage door into a small theatre, the Oktober Tenth Revolutionary Theatre. Playbills showed that The Night of Epiphany by William Shakspere had recently been enacted. Now something more serious was in production. The stage on to which the two were pushed and kicked was crowded with two dozen performers who, judging from their dazed expressions, were awaiting their final curtain.

  Guards stood over them, their faces set as grim as critics.

  Down in the auditorium, from which all seats had been removed, a sell-out gathering of soldiery was assembled.

  “This is your fault, Burnell,” Kadredin said. “You got me into this. These madmen will shoot us.”

  “It can but make the groundlings cheer.”

  The response did little to cheer the priest, who began shouting to those around him in Georgian, protesting his innocence. The other prisoners hung their heads. When one of the guards struck Kadredin across the shoulders with his rifle, he subsided, hiding his face in his hands.

  So the situation remained for a half-hour, with the prison quota on stage being occasionally added to. “The big crowd scene,” thought Burnell, pulling a gloomy face to himself. Above him loomed the sea coast of Illyria; very rocky; not a place in which to holiday. In the auditorium and the boxes above was much coming and going.

  A whistle blew in the street. Two men marched forward from the wings, to seize hold of a grey-haired man. He looked up at them, smiling weakly, shaking his head, denying something, denying everything. As they dragged him away, his hands fluttered like the wings of a broken seabird. Nobody made a move to save him. He was forced out through the stage door.

  Once in the street, the man began to scream—presumably at what he saw there. A shot rang out. There was no more screaming.

  Burnell saw red. In those weak fluttering hands had been nothing but innocence and helplessness. He turned and struck the nearest guard full in the mouth. The man reeled backwards under the unexpected blow and fell from the stage into the orchestra pit with a crash.

  A great commotion broke out. The sea coast of Illyria underwent an unscripted earthquake. Immediately other guards were on Burnell. He was born to the ground, to writhe under a shock assault of heavy boots. His life was possibly saved by his victim’s dive into the pit: the noise of it attracted an officer’s attention. He came forward. After ordering the guards to stand away from Burnell, he addressed the latter in German, telling him to get up. Shaken, Burnell replied that he felt safer lying where he was until he was released.

  “You’ll be up for trial soon. You can protest your innocence then. For now, stand up and remain silent.”

  “You couldn’t tell me what’s happening, could you?”

  “Stand up and remain silent.”

  Kadredin pressed forward, beginning incoherently to protest his own innocence. The officer turned away. Kadredin’s face had turned the color of fine volcanic ash. He said to Burnell, “You’ll get free because you’re European. You�
��ll get all the money. I’ll be shot.” He crossed himself.

  “Nonsense, we’ve done nothing. It’s OK. You’re halfway to Athens.” He could hardly stand upright for pain, pain in his back, his side, his legs. Reality came and went in a system of stabbing attacks.

  Kadredin raised a fist. “Don’t you understand? There’s been some kind of revolution since Mayor Sigua was killed. It’s clear Kaginovich has taken over the city. These are soldiers. At such dreadful times you get shot for nothing, nothing at all. I’ve seen it before.”

  “Oh, shut up. I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “They won’t shoot me. This remains a Christian country. They don’t shoot priests.” This rapid change of mind did not make him look noticeably happier. He tugged at his long hair in desperation.

  Another hour passed. Burnell could not recollect the Georgian word for coffee. Or hospitalization. Several more prisoners were dragged from the stage by the firing-squad, taken outside, and shot. The process of elimination was counterpointed by a supplement of more prisoners, some in decidedly bedraggled condition. The crowding on the stage never grew less. The stench of fear and breaking wind accumulated.

  A smartly-dressed young lieutenant pushed through the auditorium crowd and climbed on to the stage. It was two-thirty-five. Pointing a finger at Burnell, he ordered him to come along. As they went down into the auditorium, Kadredin called out, “My dear friend, tell them I am innocent. Take care of what you have. But life first, remember. Life first.”

  Groaning, Burnell could believe only that the priest had his priorities right.

  The officer escorted him upstairs and along a corridor to one of the theatre boxes. The box had been converted into a room by boarding off the view of the auditorium. Burnell’s entrance was hastened by a fist in his backbone, just where pain had already located a soft spot. His officer entered behind him, closed the door, and stood alertly with his back to it.