The Lack of Light, page 21
“Is it yours?” I was speechless.
“It belongs to us all. You may congratulate us.”
“But where did you get the money for it?” I was starting to get worked up, but Dina’s stern look in the mirror told me that now was not the time.
Rati took a blue packet of Pall Malls from his pocket and offered it to his girlfriend. It seemed he was trying to score points with his Western acquisitions, and the strategy appeared to be working. I observed the two of them in their smug togetherness. The warm wind caressed our faces through the rolled-down windows, and we all leaned into it. I was glad to have Tarik sitting beside me, and not to be so hopelessly exposed to Levan’s proximity. We had seen each other plenty of times since his birthday, but had spoken only in passing, in the humid school corridors, on the street, in the courtyard, and sometimes in our apartment when he visited Rati, the two of them filling the room with smoke and speaking conspiratorially about “business.” But I was always looking for some confirmation that our kiss had meant something, that it would lead to more, and I felt pathetic for lacking the courage to talk to him about it. He avoided being alone with me, and I couldn’t see why. This prickly desire, this vague yearning was wearing me down. I told myself that the secrets he had revealed to me were meant for me alone. I looked out of the window as the excited Tarik chattered away nonstop and Levan sat in silence, clearly not daring to look in my direction.
That must have been the last day when everything still followed the old, familiar order, the last day before everything began to collapse around me, like a particularly cruel piece of apocalyptic choreography performed in slow motion. It was also one of the last days when my city still looked like her old self, before she too put on a different, blood-streaked gown.
As we drove, I thought about my love for this city. I can still recall the mournful, sentimental feeling that clutched at my heart as we passed along the hilly, cobbled streets and the avenues lined with plane trees. Dina and I kept waving to passersby, making faces, as if we wanted them to share in our joy and excitement. I hadn’t noticed that she had brought the camera, and was more than a little surprised when she began to point it at landscapes and buildings as they flew past, and at the torn election posters. I have seen these photos in an exhibition once before, one of the first of hers that we attended. Back then, their beauty and melancholy made me feel dejected, laden as they were with a sentimentality that I could hardly bear.
In the ostentatious hall, where decorated tables groaned under piles of food, we played at being adults. It was a heartrending spectacle, all these boys proposing toasts, the girls suppressing their giggles and nodding sagely or sipping their wine, taking their lipstick and little mirrors out of their handbags, trying to talk to the teachers on equal terms, as though an invisible barrier had been lifted. We felt more grown-up than the grown-ups, and even the teachers ignored this silliness and looked on calmly as the alcohol raised everyone’s spirits and loosened their limbs, as the music got louder, as more and more high heels were removed and we hopped around the dance floor with our dresses hitched up.
I was sitting between Ira and Tarik; Levan had taken a seat to our left, followed by Dina and Saba, whom Nene had smuggled in. Officially, no external guests were allowed, but everyone seemed to be turning a blind eye, especially to the couples, and so it was only natural that Rati had joined the party as well. To begin with, Saba seemed a little uneasy, but with increasing alcohol consumption his face brightened, and he enjoyed this unsupervised time with the girl he adored. And while she was as sensual and lovable as always, that evening she also exuded an air of artificiality, and of being in a tremendous hurry. Nene, who was normally under constant observation, behaved as if she were onstage at the opera; every gesture, every endearment, every declaration had to be larger than life, exaggerated, full of significance and melodrama. If she touched Saba, she would immediately throw her arms around his neck, forgetting all the decorum she’d had drummed into her as the daughter of a good family. Saba, meanwhile, let her emotional outbursts wash over him with the same stoical reserve he brought to everything in life. She loved him with the impulsivity of first love, and he closed his eyes at every embrace, as if surrendering to her will.
Dina was a butterfly that evening. She never stayed seated for long, never finished a conversation before she was off, floating around the hall again. She hardly touched the lavish meal, settling only for a minute on the arm of a chair, patting someone’s shoulder, giggling. She laughed her way through the night, distributing her warmth and charm generously and fairly.
Levan moved to the seat beside me, and for what felt like an eternity I didn’t dare get up, feeling that something would be irrevocably destroyed if I did. From time to time I felt his eyes on me, and then I looked at the floor or pretended not to notice. I seized every opportunity to turn to Tarik, attending to him with eager hospitality. I couldn’t swallow much of the delicious food; the excitement hardened my stomach, and the little wine I drank went straight to my head.
Eventually, when Dina dragged Tarik onto the dance floor, fending off a number of boys from our class who would gladly have taken the opportunity to dance with her—she was the best dancer in the school, after all—I seized my chance and fled downstairs, into the courtyard with its thick foliage. Tall cypresses stretched up into the dark sky, and the rushing of the Mtkvari had a reassuring, almost soporific effect on me. I found a bench and a metal table with overripe mulberries hanging above it, swept a few rotten fruits from the tabletop, and sat down. I was sorry that I didn’t like the taste of cigarettes, because this would have been a good moment to light one. The loud music from inside slowly dissolved into distant background noise. I concentrated on the river, on the cars traveling along the bank, headlights sweeping their bright glare across my table. A strange heaviness weighed on my shoulders, and I was angry with myself for not being able to enjoy the party to the fullest. I was agitated, and felt blocked. When I heard footsteps behind me, I looked around in alarm.
“Don’t worry, itsonlyme!”
I recognized his cheerful, staccato voice, the quick tempo of his speech, as if he were swallowing certain sounds he found uncomfortable.
“What are you doing out here?” Levan asked, sitting down beside me on the bench.
“I’m thinking.”
“What about?”
“Anything and everything. In some ways it’s kind of sad that school is over.”
“Just be glad you don’t have to see all those ugly mugs every day from now on.” He was always playing the joker, upbeat, unshakable.
“I’m going to go to university,” I blurted out, surprising myself with this revelation. “I want to apply to study art restoration,” I added, with unusual resolve. It was the first time I had said it out loud.
“Really, that’s your plan? Interesting.” He fell silent for a while, then plucked a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it with a match. There was something very childlike about him, yet he exuded an impressive willpower that made him seem older than his years. “Then you’ll do well at it.” Again, he ran the statement together into a single word: Thenyoulldowellatit. He gave me a serious look. I held his gaze. He leaned in and kissed me.
“And you?” I turned away, determined not to let him see how breathless I was.
“What about me?” He swallowed, cleared his throat.
“Will you go to university, too?”
“No. At least, not yet.”
“Why not? Do you remember that poem you wrote in fifth grade? The teacher could hardly contain herself, she was so delighted.”
He laughed, shrill and dirty. There was something bitter and detached about his reaction; I didn’t like it.
“Why are you laughing? Are you seriously going to spend your whole life hanging around with those boys, acting like you’re some kind of New York gangster?”
He frowned. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear; he hadn’t followed me out here to talk about his future. I had shattered the intimacy between us.
“You’ve got to look at it this way, Keto—this is what I always tell my brother—if we really want things to change, we can’t shy away from getting our hands dirty.”
“What does that mean, exactly? What are you guys doing? And where did that stupid car come from?”
Suddenly I realized that everything was already in motion: that these things had been happening for some time, they were no longer just adolescent boasting. Rati and his friends were already living this life.
“We’ve got eleven cooperatives under our protection now. So that’s eleven lots of profit that aren’t going to Tapora and his kind. Eleven lots of profit that aren’t going to some corrupt cops.”
“But you’re doing exactly the same thing as those corrupt cops! I mean, you’re still taking a percentage for this protection, aren’t you?”
“We cooperate with these people. We’re business partners, not cutthroats. We take less from them, we’re their friends, not their enemies.”
I didn’t want to discuss this with him anymore. I just found it depressing, and I suddenly wanted to get out of there, to go home or, better still, to the basement to see Lika, to do meaningful work that made me feel useful.
“You look so beautiful today,” he murmured, and I didn’t know how to take the compliment. “What are you afraid of, Keto?”
I didn’t understand. “What do you mean? What should I be afraid of?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“I’m not afraid, just confused. I don’t know what you want from me . . .” I managed to extricate myself from his embrace, and took a few steps away from him.
“What I want from you?” He seemed surprised.
“Yes: what you want from me.”
“I . . . I like you. I like being with you.” He stammered, searching for the right words. Somehow I was disappointed in him, but what had I been expecting? Greater decisiveness, even an outright declaration of love? Did I want him to tell me when he was going to inform my brother of how he felt?
“I’m going back inside, okay?”
“But what’s the matter? Did I say something wrong? Keto . . . ?”
I didn’t look back, just rushed into the hall, dissolved into the dancing crowd and merged with them. Rati was dancing in a close embrace with Dina; Tarik reeled around, slurring happily; teachers were dancing with students. Guga was there, too, sitting in a corner with Anna Tatishvili’s servants and peering over at the dancing Anna. There was no sign of Nene and Saba. At first, no one seemed surprised by their absence—the party had begun to break up, and some people were out in the courtyard, others on the terrace—but eventually Guga started looking for his sister with an increasingly anxious expression. Zotne had assigned him to watch over her, and even if everyone knew he was no good at it, he felt obliged to try and fulfill the role. Uneasy now, he was asking everyone if they’d seen Nene.
“Come on, man, leave the lovebirds alone!” someone protested. He ended up appealing to Ira and me, and sounded so desperate that we, too, felt a growing sense of unease.
“Has she still not reappeared?” The tension in Ira’s voice made me prick up my ears.
“What do you mean, still?” I asked, watching Guga’s helpless face.
“She’s been gone almost two hours,” said Ira in a steely tone, and I knew her concern was justified.
“So are they?” asked Guga. His eyes seemed to be pleading with me for help. He found Ira unsettling; most of the boys our age didn’t know how to talk to her.
“I have no idea.” Ira shrugged.
“They’ll have taken the chance to be on their own for a bit. She’ll be back when it’s time, don’t worry.” I tried to sound cheerful and confident. “Let’s wait a little longer. Guga, why don’t you get yourself another glass of wine,” I added, somewhat awkwardly.
“And what if they’ve run away?”
“Oh, please, no . . .” Ira had flinched at the words; she clearly hadn’t considered this possibility.
“That would be a disaster, but I’m sure they haven’t . . .”
And as Ira muttered the same words over and over, a creeping suspicion came over me. I felt increasingly certain that the absence of her uncle and brother, coupled with a love that knew no bounds, had prompted Nene to do something on the spur of the moment without thinking it through. As I tried to picture the repercussions of this escape, I saw Ira’s eyes filling with tears. It was the first time I had ever seen her cry, but it wasn’t the tears themselves that stunned me: I realized that I was bearing witness to something I had long suspected—no, long known, though none of us had ever dared say it out loud. Yes, of course she loved Nene, and not just in the way that was considered permissible in a friendship. I remembered their kiss in the dark garden beneath the pomegranate tree, and suddenly everything came sharply into focus. I couldn’t take it all in. What was more important just then: this knowledge, or the high likelihood that Nene had skipped town with Saba? Nonetheless, I kept wondering how Ira could have placed all her hopes in Nene, of all people. How could she have fallen in love with a girl who defined herself so strongly in relation to the male sex? And what about Nene: had she ever noticed, had she ever allowed herself to even think it? What about Dina? We had never spoken about it, never followed the thought to its conclusion. I didn’t have the words for it; I had grown up in a world where there were only men and women, each trapped in their role, where certain things were prescribed and anything else was unthinkable.
“Ira, I’m so sorry . . .” It was the best I could come up with in the moment. I looked her in the eye. She took off her glasses and hung her head. “I’m here for you. If you want to talk, I mean.” I was ashamed of my clumsiness, but at the same time I was forcing myself to think of Nene, to run through every possibility, every place she might be. Should the two of us go looking for her, or would it be better to let her go? Who were we, after all, to pass judgment on her future? Then again, it was certain that her uncle would never accept this decision, would never surrender her to Saba Iashvili. The consequences would be dire.
“It had to happen. I don’t mean now, but eventually,” said Ira, cleaning her glasses on the hem of her shirt. Then she put them back on and arranged her features in the requisite expression—but the secret was a secret no longer.
“I’ll go and find Dina, and we’ll figure out what to do.” I went back into the hall and pulled Dina out of Rati’s arms. Reluctantly, she followed me onto the terrace.
“What’s got into you?” She smelled of alcohol and cigarettes.
“We think Nene and Saba have run off.” Luckily, the terrace was now empty, but for the three of us.
“What do you mean, run off?” Dina looked at me in disbelief.
“You know . . .” Ira was trying to find the right words, and Dina’s eyes widened. She shook her head, and called out to a passerby to give her a cigarette.
“We need to find her before Tapora and Zotne get wind of this.”
“They’re away, though, aren’t they?”
“And how long do you think it’ll take them to get back here once the news reaches them? Saba Iashvili of all people—Tapora will completely lose it.”
Dina thought. She paced up and down, sucking on her cigarette, her cheeks glowing. She was so beautiful, so filled with her blossoming happiness: it was like an enchanted garden with countless plants all flowering at once.
“I’ll get Rati. We can drive around and knock on the doors of all the friends Saba could be staying with. Think about who they might know with a dacha or holiday home. If you were running away, you’d go off to the countryside, right?” she said, thinking aloud. “Maybe Levan can give us some tips.” And without waiting for my reply, she hurried back into the hall.
Guga’s forehead was beaded with sweat, and all the color had drained from his face. It took me several attempts to explain to him what we suspected. Like a mantra, he kept repeating that Zotne was going to kill him. Eventually, Ira grabbed him by the shirtsleeve and dragged him after her. Without saying goodbye to the others, we ran down the wide stone steps to the exit.
I GLANCE AROUND, looking for Nene, for Ira, the props that will help me make it through this evening. Ira is nowhere to be seen. Nene is close by, talking animatedly to two Georgian girls who have clearly chosen their outfits with the intention of standing out, which they are doing effortlessly. Nene is enjoying the attention. The exclusive vodka glass is an indication of her special role here. Her small frame radiates an incredible strength—I can almost physically feel it. I wonder which of the three of us has changed the most. Perhaps it isn’t Ira, as I first thought; perhaps I’m the one who has forfeited the most of what used to define me. Now she’s laughing, and her laugh is unchanged: just as ringing, just as uninhibited and flirtatious as it always was. Did she laugh like that at Saba’s side that evening, on the way to what they thought was freedom; did she laugh about us, and the trick she’d played on us? Or, drunk on her victorious joy, did she forget us entirely, and not waste a single thought on us? Nestled up against the man she loved, was she just picturing a cloudless future? When I see her now, I see that girl in her over-the-top outfit, reveling in her fresh love to an almost vulgar degree, at a party that was supposed to be the gateway to a new life, and only led to another dungeon.
WE SEARCHED FRUITLESSLY all night, and the whole of the next day. We managed to keep Nene’s mother out of it until the afternoon, fobbing her off with all kinds of excuses to buy time. Rati and Levan phoned round their friends whose families had holiday homes, but no one had given Saba a key. Nene had no girlfriends apart from us, so there was no point in questioning our drunk classmates. There was no trace of Saba and Nene, and the Iashvilis needed to be told. Guga’s panic was growing more contagious by the minute.
“We have to find them. We have to!” said Rostom, Levan and Saba’s father, his voice quavering, a hand-rolled cigarette between his dry lips. He had gathered us together in the Iashvilis’ living room for a sort of crisis conference. Conspiratorially, we passed on all the information we had, and took it in turns to check on Guga, who was in pieces on the floral-patterned couch. The gentle Nina was tending to him, her hands as white as talcum powder.
