The Lack of Light, page 19
But over the years I spent at Lika’s side—later as her student, no longer just her daughter’s friend—I also saw another side of her. And of course my idealized image was pruned and adjusted. In time, I recognized her demons, and often observed her lonely struggle with the world she was condemned to live in, a struggle that was invisible to most people. I saw her anger at this world, at the people who had abandoned, betrayed and abused her. But even now, as I study her daughter’s photographs and summon her image to my mind, I can feel this all-embracing warmth, this almost unnatural confidence.
“Right then, let’s get to work. Take this cloth and clean the brushes,” she instructed me that afternoon, on the spur of the moment, unaware that she was laying the foundation for all that was to come. “Why are you looking so surprised? Do you want to help, or not? Excellent, then take the cloth, that’s it, hold the brush like this, and carefully clean every single bristle. This is a special chemical cleaning agent, so you’d better put gloves on if you don’t want to get a rash. They’re over there in the corner. Yes, those ones.”
I obeyed, immensely grateful to her for taking me in without my having to ask.
“Well, I did not become a singer, as you can see.” She let out a scornful laugh. “Then I believed that love, at least, would make up for it. But that was a foolish hope. Even more foolish than wanting to become a singer. Love did bring me gifts, but not the ones I was expecting.”
She laughed again, and that hoarse, earthy sound, which sometimes burst out of her unexpectedly, reminded me of Dina’s unselfconscious laughter.
Once I had cleaned the brushes, I was instructed to sort the screws and mix up some wood glue. She went to the window, from which you could see nothing but feet, and lit a cigarette. I concentrated on these new tasks; I could have followed her instructions for hours, days.
“The assumption used to be that when you were restoring a work of art—and let’s assume we agree that every work of art is unique—your job was to bring it back to its original condition,” she said, standing with her back to me, wreathed in the smoke from her cigarette. “It was only later, after the Second World War, that the prevailing view changed. People came to see that restoration was ultimately about conservation. It’s impossible to recreate the original condition perfectly, because we simply don’t know how the artwork really used to look. And so restorers agreed to preserve what was there. No historical event, no moment in time can be repeated, which means you have to approach each restoration with the aim of preserving of a piece of the present that’s holding on to the past.”
I wasn’t sure I was following her, but I tried to commit her every word to memory, wanting to inhale everything she was prepared to give me.
“This is how you need to think of it, Keto. You must have found a particularly pretty stone in the sea before, on the beach in Batumi or Sokhumi. We call the prettiest ones ‘living stones.’ They’re brightly colored, and they have a rough, uneven surface. That’s because they’ve been colonized by single-cell organisms, and types of algae, corals, sometimes even tiny shellfish. That’s what makes them so special, so interesting. And it’s the same with what we’re working on here.”
That “we” made me absolutely euphoric. Did she mean me? Could it be that she was already willing to accept me into her secret order?
“We’re trying to conserve a piece of the Now, which has merged with a piece of the past. It’s not at all simple, let me tell you . . .” She cleared her throat and turned to me, stubbing out her cigarette in an old can. “Let’s keep going, you’ll understand soon enough.”
It was only when both Babudas called the Pirvelis’ apartment, one after the other, making concerned inquiries as to my whereabouts, that Lika sent me home. I ran up the stairs, taking several steps at a time, and listing the names of all the tools that I’d heard for the first time that day.
I must call Lika, I think now. I must tell her about the time I stood in Rome thinking about her, weeping noiselessly. I must tell her that I’m thinking about all of that now, and realizing that her daughter, in her unique and effortless way, did the very same thing we spent all those years toiling to achieve. Yes: she too was trying to conserve the Now, which had merged with a piece of the past.
IN THE WEEKS that followed, I visited Lika almost daily, and immersed myself in her world. My thirst for knowledge had never been greater, and I had never found learning easier. I readily put myself in her hands and let her guide me; I chose her as a torch to light my way through the long tunnel that those months of my life resembled.
Lika asked no questions, she simply accepted my presence, praised me for my interest in her work and for my dexterity, and called me out if I wasn’t concentrating, or for the occasional bit of carelessness, warning me always to stay alert and to take proper care when handling the tools. She brought in sweet zwieback or fruit for me when the afternoons were dragging, made tea for us, and smoked the odd cigarette, always turning her back to me and looking out of the window. And when evening was approaching, she decided when to “call it a day.” Sometimes, though, when there wasn’t much to do, or when what had to be done was beyond my capabilities, she let me sit on the low stool beside her and draw. She made no comment, didn’t speak, just gave me a barely perceptible smile or an encouraging look from time to time.
Once she asked me why I didn’t want to study art—our final exams were coming up and we would soon have finished school; did I have any ideas about my future? And for the first time I said out loud what had been troubling me all this time: I feared the responsibility, feared standing in front of a blank canvas and not being able to do it justice. Feared the colors and the impossibility of capturing the real world’s complexity. I confessed that I found it easier to follow instructions and carry out a precisely defined task. At her side, in this room, I was sure of myself. I had a clear process to follow, and if there was something I didn’t know, she was there to support me. The very thought of swapping my drawing pad for an easel and canvas made me feel instantly weak.
“You can only find all this out by doing it,” she said, staring at a book she was trying to find something in. I didn’t reply, left it at that, and she understood. She usually did understand people’s needs; no words were required. She wasn’t going to push me into anything, just give me the time I needed, and I knew that I could be sure of this refuge for as long as necessary.
ON MAY 26, 1991, the day of our final exams, Zviad Gamsakhurdia became the first freely elected president of Georgia. We didn’t really care about that; we were too busy celebrating our own freedom. And even if our liberation coincided with that of our country, the latter had little significance for us. That day, the recess bell rang for a long time—it was for us, just for us, the leavers. The teachers congratulated us and scribbled their names on our white pinafores and shirts.
After the symbolic, rather sentimental final lesson, when even the disruptive members of the class were quiet and contemplative, we rushed out into the hallway, threw open all the doors and screeched and sang and rejoiced in ourselves and the promise of the future. There was an achingly beguiling scent of lilacs in the air, the usual scent of our city in May. (Is this city still mine? Can I still call it that, when I’ve missed the lilacs blossoming so many times? When does something stop being yours—where is the border at which the familiar becomes foreign? Can our own childhood ever become foreign to us?)
We gathered in the schoolyard, where the boys drank wine out of soda bottles, and some of the girls joined in. Even Ira, who had spent the past few weeks like a nun, came back to life, smiling broadly. We dashed out into the street, enjoying the admiring looks from younger students, who watched us go with a mixture of envy and longing. We wanted every moment of this special day for ourselves, to drink it in like an elixir. Everything seemed possible that day; all paths seemed open to us.
We held hands and crossed the bare field where most of our “physical culture” lessons had taken place. Later, we reeled down Engels Street, drunk on joy, bellowing—we wanted everyone to see and hear us, because finally we were the masters of our own fate. Finally, we were the kings of our own realm. How naïve we were . . .
That evening, all four of us lay on Nene’s wide bed and surrendered to our dreams. Zotne had gone to Rostov for the summer, on some kind of “business” with his uncle, which meant Nene was enjoying a freedom she had never known before. While Guga seemed to be withering away from love-sickness, Nene was steadily blossoming, and the tricks and lies she served up to her mother in order to spend as much time as possible with Saba were growing ever bolder.
“So, what do you want to do—do you have any idea what you want to study?” Ira said, suddenly turning to me. She stretched into a shoulder-stand, propping up her hips with her hands, and stayed in this position, like an acrobat.
“Keto’s just boring, she’s always sitting around in my mother’s studio, playing the model student,” said Dina. She was needling me, but something in her voice told me that she really didn’t like it.
It was true: a sort of tension had developed between us since I’d started spending more time in Lika’s studio. I had no desire to hear Dina’s reproaches, so I just pretended not to notice that it annoyed her. She had only confronted me once, saying something that left me speechless: “I’ve got your brother, and you’ve got my mother in exchange. I suppose that’s only fair.”
“What are you doing with Lika, anyway? Isn’t it really tedious, polishing some old bits of furniture?” Nene commented, stretching lazily on the bed like an elderly cat.
“It’s not at all tedious! It’s a lot of work, and there’s a ridiculous amount of stuff you have to be able to do!” That’s how it always was with Dina: she could dish it out, but you could never say anything negative back to her, certainly not about the people she loved.
“I didn’t mean it like that, I meant tedious for Keto,” Nene clarified.
“Oh, man, will you just let her speak for herself?” Ira scolded, dropping back onto the bed. “It was her opinion I wanted to hear.”
“I’m still thinking about it, but I . . .”
“What is there still to think about? Come on, you’ve known for ages what you want to do.” Suddenly Dina was looking me straight in the eye.
“Oh, really? And what is it that I’ve known for ages?” I replied, irritably.
“You’re going to study restoration. You think that, by doing that, you’re playing it safe. You don’t have the guts for painting, if I’ve understood correctly.”
I could have slapped her for that remark, but essentially, she was right. I’d been flirting with the idea for some time, but didn’t dare say it out loud. I’d picked up some information from the Academy of Arts, and I thought about it incessantly.
“It would be very . . . unusual, but why not,” Ira pronounced, in her typical pensive tone. For a moment, we all fell into a meaningful silence.
“Sorry to disappoint you—you won’t get to be friends with a glamorous painter,” I told Dina, coldly.
“What do you mean? Do you think I’m saying it for my own sake?” Her eyes were suddenly wide again, full of warmth and tenderness, and I was sorry for being so mean.
“Then why do you keep insisting on it?” I asked, looking away. “I’m not an artist like you, sorry.”
“That’s not the point at all. Fuck the label. As far as I’m concerned, you can be a garbage collector if that’s what makes you happy. I just think you should have the courage to be who you are. My mother had no choice, she didn’t become a restorer because she desperately wanted to.”
“God, Dina, I haven’t done a single painting, do you think my silly drawings are going to get me in? Do you know how many people want to study painting?”
“Yes, but how many people really are painters?”
“And why are you so convinced that I am?”
“Because I know you!”
Something in her words both moved me to tears and made me feel cornered. I wanted to leap up and run out of the room that instant, all the way to 12 Vine Lane and down the few steps to the basement. I didn’t understand her violent reaction. Why was she doing this? Why was she putting me under such pressure with her expectations? And yet I couldn’t help but be grateful to her. She challenged me; our entire friendship was based on these challenges. Without intending to, she helped me to grow, even if I sometimes cursed her for the way she pressed ahead with things.
“Your mother’s happy with her work, don’t talk it down,” I said, making eye contact again.
“I’m not talking anything down!” she burst out. An icy silence descended on the room. “You have absolutely no idea! Do you know how many sacrifices we had to make, how unbearable it all was for me and Anano?”
I was surprised by her rage, and by this streak of self-pity, which was something I’d never seen in her before.
“Sorry, Dina, but it seems to me you’re speaking for yourself. You’re going to go your own way, and I’m sure Keto has her reasons for wanting to become a restorer,” a thoughtful Ira put in. I felt a rush of gratitude toward her for salvaging the situation with this considered tone.
“In any case, I’ve already registered for the university entrance exams,” she informed us confidently. She got up from the soft bed. Dina had turned away and was sitting with her back to us.
“Really, Ira? You’re going through with it? You’re really going to study law?” Relieved by the change of subject, I seized the chance to steer the conversation away from me.
“Yes, I’m going through with it. We’re an independent country now, we’re going to pass new laws, think new things, and I want to be there when all this newness is happening,” she said, a little mawkishly.
“Independence or no, as long as this system stays in place, I’m not setting foot in any university!” I could hear my brother speaking to us through Dina, and tried not to let my irritation show.
“You’ve got to do something, though . . .” Ira probed.
“I will do something. I’ll take photographs. Or go and work at the zoo. As a keeper. I like animals better than people, anyway.”
“Seriously?” Nene was open-mouthed. She was always taken in by Dina; it worked every time. Then again, it was difficult to draw a line between fantasy and reality with Dina. Her world was a permanent balancing act, and she never thought her ideas were lies; she believed in them herself, which was why they sounded so convincing.
“Oh, come on, Nene—she’s not going to be a zookeeper,” I said, sullenly.
“You have just as little idea as the rest of us what’ll happen tomorrow, so you can’t rule anything out,” Dina shot back, sounding offended.
At that moment, Nene jumped up from the bed, and announced brightly, “And I’m just going to become Mrs. Iashvili, and burst with happiness!”
We all looked at her in astonishment, and then, as one, began snorting with laughter.
The Lovers of Tbilisi
Anano appears beside me unexpectedly, giving me her conciliatory smile.
“How are you doing? Everything okay? Are they keeping you topped up?” She looks at my empty glass. I nod, and try to force a confident smile. She looks like someone who has everything under control, without it being a huge effort. We talk about Lika, who has been living with Anano and her family for the past two years. I think about the time when I still used to call her every week from Germany, and what a rock, what a constant she was for me then. I could scarcely afford the overpriced phone cards. But she was my bridge, my assurance that I could come back at any point, if the worst came to the worst. I’m ashamed that I haven’t spoken to her for so long, and again I think about my tears in Rome.
“But tell me about yourself, tell me about your little Rati—not so little now, I imagine. Mother told me you’re really busy. She’s always gushing about how talented you are; she’s kind of proud as well, like your success is partly down to her.” Anano’s eyes twinkle. “You know her . . .”
“It absolutely is down to her, and not just partly.”
“She tells me you specialize in the Renaissance, and you’re booked up years in advance.”
“Well, I’ve got plenty of work and I travel a lot—that’s both the good and the bad thing about this job. But things have been easier since Rati left home. You and your mother should come visit; I’ve said that to Lika so many times.”
“Maybe. She’s not as young as she was, though, and even if she refuses to see it, age is taking its toll. I might be in Germany next winter anyway, though. For the gallery—we’re planning a big exhibition of young Georgian painters. The West has really started to discover them recently, and we want to support them.”
“A good opportunity to take a little detour, then.”
“Mother says you live in the middle of the forest? And you have an impressive garden?”
“It’s an old farmhouse that I bought and did up years ago. It’s the best retreat you could wish for. And to be honest, the garden was your mother’s idea. ‘You have so much space now, you should grow things, it gives you an incredible sense of peace.’ She was right. But what isn’t that woman right about?”
We both laugh. “It got too boring for Rati eventually, of course,” I continue. “He moved to the city; he’s living it up, and he likes to travel, we’re similar in that respect. He’s interested in music, but the kind of music I don’t have a clue about. Electronic, in the broadest sense. We’re dinosaurs now, you know . . . Well, you’re not—not yet—but I definitely am.”
Anano laughs and shakes her head. “Nonsense.”
I don’t know why I do it—I hate putting my phone in someone’s face and showing them a thousand pictures from virtual albums—but, acting on impulse, I show her the turquoise lake, and my garden, which I talk about with almost maternal pride. I have to laugh at myself.
