The Lack of Light, page 37
“That’s Georgia for you,” said my professor, later. “This has always been our problem. We underestimate our own heritage, and images the Russians painted over our twelfth-century wall paintings just a hundred years ago are allowed to remain. But still—we have cause for celebration. Every fresco we save is a triumph!”
That evening, we drove out to Sighnaghi with her colleagues and celebrated in a little local restaurant with outdoor tables, overlooking the Alazani Valley, where we drank liters of ocher wine and ate grilled meat. That evening was also the first time I paid any attention to Reso, although we had been working together for several weeks and, I thought, doing so pretty well. He was a former student of Maya’s who now specialized in wall paintings. She thought very highly of his talent, and never tired of praising his “peerless nose,” which had already gained him work in other countries.
It’s an odd thing to wind back time and recall one of the people I know best when he was a stranger to me. How little does my impression of him then accord with what I see in him now, what I know today?
I didn’t like him at first. He might have been in his late twenties, but could just as easily have been forty, and I found him extremely fussy and unnervingly pragmatic. He had a sharp eye, and was good at keeping his speculation within the bounds of reality. He was anything but an idealist, and thus the complete opposite of Maya. But it was this pragmatic streak of his that she valued. That evening, I saw him laugh for the first time, and noticed his sense of humor: a subtle, very unusual humor that occasionally flashed out from behind his fierce intelligence.
In this period, it was only on rare occasions that I went to the house next door to telephone Father or one of the Babudas. Phone calls were supposed to be for emergencies; they cost money that none of us had, and the connection was poor. Once a week, Ira or Dina would call the house next door at an agreed time, and give me a brief rundown of their daily lives, phone calls in which we swerved any painful or delicate subject, as if we were skating on a frozen lake. Instead, I immersed myself in the resin solutions, the layers of lime plaster, the boiled linseed oil and bonding agents; I immersed myself in “The Baptism of Jesus,” and in the blue of the River Jordan that we discovered in the upper left-hand corner. I was so glad to find consolation in the saints and their quiet, kind, all-forgiving faces, their unshakable faith that all would be well, since, in the end, salvation awaited every one of us. We just had to exert ourselves, make the effort.
I found Reso disconcerting; he made me nervous. There was something arrogant and obsessive about him; he never seemed to doubt, was so sure of himself, so very at peace with himself, that to me he seemed almost inhuman. Sometimes he reminded me of my father in his straightforwardness, though he lacked my father’s unworldly aspect: Reso was extremely practical. Despite my initial skepticism, he quickly accepted me, and praised me now and then when I really gave something my all. Eventually, he asked me what had made me choose this profession, and I told him about Lika and my drawings. “You should try working on paintings, then,” he advised me. “I’ll see if I can get you some work—a good assistant is always useful,” he said, showing off a little, when we had been working side by side in silence for nearly two hours. How I loved that silence.
IT MUST HAVE been the end of July when Ira and Dina came to visit. They arrived in an old minibus, backpacks on their shoulders, worn out from the heat and astonished at the idyll that greeted them. We fell into each other’s arms, and it was only seeing them again that made me realize how much I had been longing for them. Dina was tanned and glowing in a yellow dress and her beloved espadrilles, hair tousled as always. She was blooming, and even on the short walk from the bus stop to the winemaker’s house she drew all eyes to her. Quite unlike Ira, who seemed tired and shrunken; her drooping shoulders and already slightly stooped gait looked even more pained than usual. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she was surprisingly pale for the time of year. She had lost weight, and her clothes—black linen trousers and a shapeless shirt—looked as if they were borrowed from her father. I had asked Maya for a weekend off so I could spend some time with them. Our host had let me borrow a fold-out guest bed and an extra mattress.
The three of us sat outside the house as the sun went down. Here, too, electricity was in short supply, but that evening we were in luck, and a flickering bulb lit our evening meal. Maya had gone to Tbilisi; our little team was running low on everything, and she hoped to track down some additional materials with the little money we had left. Reso was nowhere to be seen, and I was glad; it meant we wouldn’t be disturbed. In just a few hours, the peace and quiet seemed to have wrested Ira and Dina from the city’s clutches. They quieted down, moved more slowly, and inhaled the fresh air, enjoying every breath.
“Oh, Keto, our little honors student, we’ve missed you so much!” cried Dina, and pressed a smacking kiss on the side of my head. Ira had put her feet up and was sipping a glass of the host’s wine.
“I missed you too, but being here has been so good for me. I feel like I’ve found peace for the first time in years.”
“Nene’s pregnant,” Ira said suddenly, as she passed Dina a light for her cigarette.
“She’s what?!”
This news seemed to shake the whole, peaceful scene. Sudden cracks appeared in our hard-won idyll.
“What?” Dina was clearly as surprised as I was.
“She’s pregnant.”
“Whose is it?” Dina was trying not to let us see her horror.
“She says it’s Saba’s. She says it can’t be Otto’s, because they never . . . you know.”
“Never what?”
“Properly slept together. She swears it’s Saba’s baby, and she’s triumphant.”
“Triumphant?”
“Yes. She says this is her victory over everything and everyone, especially Otto.”
“Does her family know?”
“No, she’s only planning to tell them when she can’t hide it any longer. Then there’ll be nothing they can do.”
“Oh, you mean . . .” Dina probed, her pupils widening.
“Exactly: when it’s too late for an abortion. She’ll be going to the Crimea soon with her mother, supposedly for a rest cure, and that’s where she’ll drop the bombshell. Will have to, probably. She says she’s throwing up quite a lot, and . . .” Ira sighed and rubbed her face with both hands. Dina drew on her cigarette, and I watched a moth settle on the lightbulb. It twitched, fighting to get to the light. My mind drifted away as I watched the moth kissing its own misfortune.
“Shit,” said Dina. She drew nervously on her cigarette and looked out over the immense, dark sea of the vineyard.
“Her family’s going to go mad,” I said. I was already picturing the scenario.
“But what can they do to her now? She’s more fearless than she’s ever been. She says that, if it comes to it, she’ll go into hiding. First she wants to have the baby, and she wants a divorce, as soon as Otto . . .” Ira paused. “But he isn’t likely to be back on the scene anytime soon.”
“I think you’re right.” I thought of Levan’s eyes sparkling as he spoke of being patient.
“Did you two hear? Abkhazia declared independence yesterday. Now everyone is afraid things are going to escalate. The newspaper’s working overtime, and Posner’s thinking about going out there.” Dina’s voice came from far away, as if she were dropping an anchor.
“What’s that?” My mind was still on Nene, and it took me a while to come back to the present. Of course I hadn’t heard. Thankfully. There was no television in the house, and while the neighbor with the phone also had a TV set, it was constantly monopolized by the village women watching their Latin American soaps, an incredibly popular pastime lately for women of every age and class.
“They’ve all started shooting at each other again. And apparently the Russians are supplying arms to Abkhazia. It doesn’t look good.” Dina’s tone had changed, and she looked serious and introspective. The lighthearted Dina who had first arrived here seemed to have vanished.
“Do you really think it’ll come to that?” My mind was reeling; the wine had made it a little foggy, and in any case my focus was still Nene and her problem. Without waiting for Dina’s response, I quickly added, “I really can’t be bothered with all the bullshit anymore. As far as I’m concerned, they can scratch each other’s eyes out. I don’t want any more to do with it.”
Dina stared at me, appalled. “You can’t just close the shutters when everything outside is on fire, and hope that you’ll be spared! What kind of attitude is that, Keto?”
“Haven’t you had enough of all the madness, too?”
“These are the times we live in. Half the population of Abkhazia are Georgians. It’s not like they’re going to say: okay, we’ll just leave, then—you take the Russian guns and declare your independence,” Dina retorted, incensed. I wondered when she had become so political, and whether it was to do with what had happened at the zoo, or had more to do with the newspaper.
“And don’t you think we’re just as much to blame?” Ira put in. “Our president did nothing but spout nationalist slogans—‘Georgia for the Georgians’ and all that. I mean, how many different ethnic groups live here? Aren’t they all Georgians? Who decides who is and who isn’t? Who decides your identity?”
“Wait, wait—Abkhazia will have to wait. We need to worry about Nene!” I had no stomach for this discussion; I wanted to talk about our friend.
“Yes, you’re right.” Dina, always incredibly quick to change tack, agreed with me. “This time she needs to feel she can count on us. That we’re her friends, and we support her decisions. And if she wants to run away, then we have to help her. We should have done that before: helped her and Saba . . .”
All at once, I felt drained. My summer peace had been nothing but a stage set. Already I was back in the epicenter of things, caught up in a maelstrom of events. I sighed, and laid my forehead on the cool metal table. Dina gently stroked my hair. How I wished I could turn back time to the day we broke into the Botanical Garden to jump from the rocks into the dark water. How easy everything seemed then: the future laid out before us, like a book written in a secret code that we just had to learn how to decipher.
“What is it? Don’t you agree?” Ira seemed slightly irritated, as if she wouldn’t tolerate opposition, had no more patience for other opinions. She stared at me.
“No, of course I do. I’m just wondering what we can do. What will actually have an impact on the situation,” I whispered, in my exhaustion.
“Don’t be like that! We’ll do whatever’s necessary.” Ira’s guilty conscience had radicalized her. I was reminded of her unrestrained tears the day she pulled me out of the breadline. And I got the feeling that, now Nene had lost the person she loved, Ira had begun to hope her friend would need her again, the way she used to. Any logical objection seemed pointless. And maybe these two were right: maybe this wasn’t about finding specific solutions, but just being there for her, ready to do anything she thought necessary.
The power went off. We were left in the dark. None of us moved.
All at once, the sickle of a crescent moon and countless stars were blazing in the sky. Viewed from a distance, we must have looked like happy people in a picturesque place. We were together, a unit, and the universe seemed kindly disposed toward us.
“I’m going with her,” said Ira, “on this rest cure. I’ve saved up some money. I’ll just be close by in case she needs me. I’m not going to make the same mistake again,” she added, firmly. “I’ll rent a small room and take the bus. It’s cheap, even if it does take forever.”
Dina said nothing. She seemed lost in thought.
“What does Nene say to that?”
“She doesn’t know yet. But that doesn’t matter. I won’t leave her on her own again,” said Ira, with a certain self-satisfaction. “I actually had the opportunity to go abroad for two semesters from September, but I’ve already turned it down.”
“Abroad where?” Dina had suddenly woken up and turned to Ira.
“I was put forward for a scholarship, and they chose me. Three of the best students in our school get to go to the United States, fully funded. To Pennsylvania State University,” she said in an American accent, as if to demonstrate how good her English was.
“The United States?” Dina and I repeated in unison. The USA was the promised land: the far-off, longed-for land of movies; the sweet, forbidden continent of our desires. Had we understood correctly: was Ira really passing up this chance? It would be so misguided, so stupid, that we were speechless.
“Ira!” Dina exclaimed after a brief silence.
“You can’t do that!” I blurted out as well.
“Nene is the most important thing now,” said Ira, with fanatical determination.
“But . . .” I fell silent, realizing there was no sense in pressuring her. The guilt she felt was stronger than any wanderlust, stronger than her still-unquenched thirst for knowledge, and her desire to achieve great things with that knowledge one day.
We were just about to go inside when Reso appeared, as if out of nowhere, lighting his way through the gloom with a pocket flashlight. He was a welcome distraction from our conversation, which had turned down a blind alley, and so we were glad when he asked if he could join us, and offered him the remains of our meal.
“It’s always these goddamn priests,” he said, with a weary sigh. “They’re obstructing our work. And we need more people, we have to uncover all the walls and ceilings. It’s so tiresome, and so stupid.”
For some reason I couldn’t fathom, Dina took to him at once, asking one question after another, always wanting to know more, and he was happy to provide information. Dina’s allure was familiar to me, but I was impressed to see even this stoic pragmatist falling for her charms.
In the dawn light, as Dina lay beside me on the rusty, squeaking camp bed, she announced in that tone of voice that admitted no objection, “He likes you.”
I had expected many things, but not this. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, barely able to keep my eyes open.
“No, no, believe me, I’ve got a sense for these things.”
“I think the only person he likes is himself. He’s an odd guy.”
“He’s just different. But different doesn’t have to be bad.”
“Different how? Different from whom?”
We could hear Ira’s regular breathing from the depths of the room.
“Different from the men you know.”
“What you’re saying is: different from us.”
“Yes, if you like: different from us.”
“Well, I still think it’s total nonsense.”
“Everything he was telling me so excitedly was about you. Believe me.”
“But you were the one he was talking to all that time. And of course he likes it when someone like you takes an interest in his stuff.”
“Someone like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, you know. Someone like you isn’t usually interested in the Resos of this world.”
“He likes you. And he’s a good guy. I think you should give him a chance.”
I was wide awake now, and sat up indignantly. She was an emotional hurricane, insatiable, busy, restless—and I felt insulted that she would think someone so boring and arrogant was the man for me, while her own life could never be adventurous or unconventional enough for her.
“Have you forgotten about Levan? Anyway, Reso isn’t just different . . . it’s like he’s from another planet.”
“Well, maybe—but then, maybe our planet isn’t inhabitable anymore. Maybe we should set off for a new world while we can, because the world we know isn’t going to exist for much longer.” It was rare for Dina to be so philosophical. I wondered at her pessimism, the fear in her soft voice.
“Dina, what’s wrong?”
“The whole thing is going to carry on until everyone has slit each other’s throats. And Rati . . . he’s planning an offensive. They’ve already taken over some stores that used to be under the Koridzes’ protection. That isn’t going to fly for much longer; it’s going to get out of control. They all have guns. And Levan . . . I see the two of you. He’s getting more and more aggressive, and if things don’t come to a head soon, he’ll choke on his own rage. I know something happened between you, even if you’re trying to hide it. You retreated out here like a snail into its shell, but you have to go back eventually, whether you want to or not. I love you, and it’s already too much: what happened to Nene, and Ira about to throw away her future, and Saba dead . . .” She paused. Her face was turned away from me, and I could only imagine what it showed as she was talking. There was a frightening finality in the way she spoke, in those clear, considered words.
“And what about you? I mean, why don’t we try to set off for a new world together, as you put it?”
“You know I belong here.”
“And why do you think I don’t?”
“Because you’re different.You can be different.”
“And you aren’t?”
She didn’t answer. I waited for her to speak again, and when no words came, I summoned up all my courage and asked the question that had been in my head all this time.
“There is something you want to tell me, though, isn’t there, Dina?”
A small pause, as if she were considering whether she could expect me to handle the truth. Then she reached her conclusion.
“Zotne . . .”
“What about him?”
“He wants more . . . Oh shit, shit!” she groaned.
“What are you going to do?”
