Текст книги "Gia Tortladze Stories"

cousin on a rainy evening, at the foot

of Nanga-Patra[1]

It was dark in Diamroi[2]. Nobody visits the gorge of Diamir after dark. The paths running along the top of the cliff are narrow, and one can fall into the yawning gap any moment.

Nobody understands the language of Diamroi people. Strangely enough, every village in the gorge has its own language. On the whole, there are spoken fifty languages in Pakistan. Urdu is their common language though, spoken and understood by everyone.

To my mind, there is no other place in the whole country, whose inhabitants are as crazy about arms as the population of the gorge, especially in the village of Diamroi located at the mouth of the gorge.

Hazrat Vali was coming back from a date.

He was desperately in love with Shafia. The two managed to meet from time to time at the appointed place. They both ran a risk of dying for that. Shafia was engaged to Mahmad Omar. Their parents decided on this marriage long ago. Such deals are called mangetain Pakistan. Those who infringe on its rules must die.

The customs and traditions have become milder in North Pakistan – in Hunza, Gilgit, Baltistan, and Hushe. Women there can go out into the street alone and even talk with a stranger.

Nevertheless, in the land of Chilas, in the gorge of Diamir, nothing has changed. Women are deprived of all rights. They can go out only in the company of their close relatives.

The medieval customs are still very influential there.

***

Hazrat Vali went into the house. He opened the door very silently and slipped inside more like a thief than a host. It was dark in the house; only a minute oil lamp was lit somewhere in the corner.

“They’ll kill you,” – his mother, Kurishan, said to him, “Nobody in Diamroi is allowed to date with the woman belonging to another man.”

“Shafia is mine! She can’t belong to anyone else! We shall soon run away from here.”

“They’ll still find you! Karim Ula Beg was found in Lahor and killed there, Badar was killed in Peshevar and the others couldn’t even go further than Chilas!”

“We shall see! We are not going through Chilas; we’ll go across the mountain range and get to Bisham.”

“I have warned you. You are not going to kill only yourself, but also the poor girl.”

“Perhaps, it’s the only way out.”

“Mind, I shouldn’t know when you are going to leave and which way you are going to take. I can’t say a lie, you know.”

“I do.”

***

Early next morning Hazrat Vali was visited by Inamur Haki, Shafia’s relative.

“My uncle suspects something wrong. He didn’t believe Shafia when she told him she had gone out into the toilet. He said she was hot and tired when she came back. If he realizes what’s going on, they will kill you both – Shafia first, you next. Mahmad Omar’s relatives are also making a fuss about it. They, too, might have smelt a rat. Please, please go away and give up your crazy idea!”

“I can’t go away without her. Let it happen if it is our fate.”

“Let Allah and your late father Liver Han’s soul be with you, and let them both protect you! Remember, we haven’t seen each other today!”

***

Next day Hazrat Vali couldn’t manage to inform Shafia about his plan. He couldn’t trust anybody, for he knew, nobody would sympathize with him. He was going to commit a terrible crime, thus putting shame on two families – Shafia’s and Mahmad Omar’s.

According to the local custom, it was the woman’s family who had to punish their daughter. As for Hazrat Vali himself, he should be executed by Mahmad Omar’s relatives. Somewhere deep in his heart he felt guilty. He remembered well what his mother told him earlier. His grandfather had killed his daughter, Hazrat Vali’s aunt, Nasira, and her sweetheart in the corn field. Nasira hadn’t been engaged to anyone. She simply dared to date with a man. It was a terrible insult for the family.

Poor Nasira was only seventeen.

Having killed his daughter, Jangirhan walked tall in Diamroi the very next day. He followed the tradition and honored the custom. Now his family was free of the terrible shame.

It’s very strange, but these ruthless people never use a sword or a knife when killing their kith and kin for adultery; they do it with a gun.

***

In the end, Hazrat Vali managed to catch Shafia’s cock in the rye field and tied a sign on its leg.

Shafia had to come to the appointed place at night, and they would leave Diamroi at once. Hazrat Vali prepared everything they needed for the trip: supply of food and water enough for two days, and necessary clothes.

“Once we reach Ravalpindi, I’ll get some job there. I can do any odd job if we are together. Ravalpindi is a huge city. Nobody is going to find us there,” he said.

The two met each other near the hill of Blind Rahmada.

“We’re leaving! There is no other way out. If we don’t leave tonight, our relations will be over. We shall be very happy together, Shafia!”

Shafia hugged him and started to cry. They were sitting caressing each other for a while.

“It’s time to go!” Hazrat Vali said, “There is a long way ahead. We must put our best foot forward.”

Suddenly there came an unexpected light from the side of their village. Shafia was thrown back to the rocks and Hazrat Vali heard a horrible sound. His blood curdled in his veins.

Shafia was lying on her back. The bullet had run straight through her throat. It was only now that Hazrat Vali realized what had happened. Astonished he looking at Shafia, then at the little oil lamp that was blazing at his feet.

“Why on earth have I lit it? Why?!” he thought in despair.

The same light came from the village again. Twice this time.

Hazrat Vali was running down the gorge as fast as he could. He was sucking his thumb and groaning with pain and despair. Something cold was running down his elbow.

***

The dawn in Ravalpindi is unforgettable, but the dusk is even much better. The sun here rises in the east, as everywhere else, and sets in the west, but they are the most beautiful sunrise and sunset in the world.

The city wakes up at five in the morning. A lot of people fill its streets: dark Lahorians, and even darker Karachians, Indian Mahajirs, Kashmirians, Patanians, local Punjabis, Persian-speaking Hazards. The people from North Pakistan are easiest to be recognized because of their hunza hats which are warn by every self-respecting Mujahid.

There are too few of these people in Ravalpindi, and so they can be spotted very easily. But if any of them want to stay unnoticed, they have to refuse wearing the hat. They can also be noticed and distinguished because of their white complexion and a proud look.

All the shops and inns are opened early in the morning, but bazaar opens even earlier, when it is still rather dark. There are two bazaars there: Sadarbazaar and Rajabazaar. One can walk in the Rajabazaar all day long, bargaining non-stop and never getting bored.

Near the bazaar there runs a narrow street – the blacksmiths’ lane. Every blacksmith there is specialized in some particular craft. Some are making horse-shoes, others – chains, and still others – Pakistani axes called chattels.

Each workshop belongs to a particular person. Some even own two workshops. The owners themselves don’t work, though they are excellent craftsmen. They are drinking a lot of tea all day long, and telling amazing stories while their hired laborers work and do a good job for them.

***

“What do you say, where has this lad come from?”

“He must be from the north, though his manners reveal that he is from Pushtuh. He works too hard, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. He has been working here for six years already. Before that he was an apprentice at Mamad Hussein’s. He is very honest. I would trust him anything, even my life.”

“The majority of customers are calling at his shop, as I see.”

“Yes, Allah has sent him to me.”

“Has he got a family?”

“No. And he won’t even think of it. Mamad Hussein suggested him to marry a nice Kashmirian girl, but he refused.”

“What’s his name?”

“Hallil-Beg.”

“A good name indeed. The Sultan of Lahore would envy him. Where does he live?”

“He’s renting a room at the bottom of the lane.”

The scarlet sun was setting at the bottom of the lane; in the west, as usual.

***

“Shafia! Shafia! Why on earth did I light that lamp? Why?!”

Hallil-Beg woke up wet all over. He lit a lamp, changed his clothes and washed his face and hands. He had to make three chattels and five horse-shoes that day. He looked at his right hand that lacked half a thumb.

The sun was rising at the bottom of the lane. It rose huge and golden.

“Today you’ve earned two hundred rupees. If you go on like this, you’ll save a considerable sum of money.”

“I do my best, Nana Muhamed.”[3]

“Guess what’s the date today?”

“I have no idea, Nana Muhamed.”

“What’s the matter with you? Why are you so absent-minded? Don’t you remember what happened seven years ago? You appeared in our lane all in rugs, exhausted and dying of hunger. We’re gathering at Mamad Hussein’s today to celebrate it. Close the shop early and come to his place.“

“I have a lot of orders, Nana Muhamed. I can’t let the customers down.”

“Do as I tell you. Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”

“All right, Nana Muhamed.”

***

Two men came to the bazaar – one young, the other elderly. They asked the locals how to get to the blacksmiths’ lane. In the end, when they reached their destination, they entered one of the inns right at the top of the lane.

“Can I help you, dear guests?”

“Yes. We would like to have some makai chipati.”[4]

“You must be from the north then?”

“No, we arrived from Pashevari.”

“I see. I’ll bring your order in no time.”

The inn-keeper went away. The two men looked at each other.

“How could the bustard guess?”

“I don’t know.”

“All right, forget it.”

“We must be grateful to Inamur Haki. He saved our family from a public disgrace.”

“We don’t know it yet.”

“Oh yes, we do. Mahmad Omar saw him with his own eyes.”

“Really? How could he avoid killing him?”

“It wasn’t his duty, you ought to know that!”

***

It was getting dark in the blacksmiths’ lane. Most of the shops had already been closed. Only two shops were still lit up. Hallil-Beg took off his apron and hat, washed his hot face with cold water, removed the dust from his trousers, and looked at the result of the day’s work. “They’ll come in the morning, I guess. So I can close the shop and go to Mamad Hussein’s. I have to, they are gathering because of me,” he thought.

The fire in the furnace was nearly out. He switched off the light, shut the wooden door and locked it with two bolts.

“Who is the man waiting for, I wonder?” Hallil-Beg thought and suddenly saw the same light as in Diamroi seven years ago.

He dropped his head backward and felt a terrible pain in the back.

“I shouldn’t have left the fire in the furnace,” he thought and fell down on his back.

Two shadows were running down the lane.

Hazrat Vali was lying still. Soon something light and airy escaped his body, paused over it for a while, and flew westward, where the sun usually sets.

That night several dogs were growling in Diamroi till dawn.

Pakistan

Diamir Gorge, 2005

GRANDFATHER FROST

“Listen here man, am I telling you to beg him for money? Just go and ask him to get you a simple job. Let it be a caretaker’s or a night watchman’s job; something like that.”

“No no, Jemal, those years are my sweetest memory. I went round giving happiness and delight to the kids. True, it happened only once a year, but still it was wonderful. I remember their happy faces. They were waiting for me the whole night through. Some were waiting with the sleepy eyes, and others were full of joy and excitement... No, I can’t visit him. That world should remain untouched.

“Jesus! How obstinate you are! If I knew such a person, I would move the mountains! He must remember you, can’t he?”

“I hope so... I had been visiting their place for ten years. In the end he told me he knew I was not real, that I was disguised, but he still wanted me to come... Let’s have some more drink.”

“Are you nuts? Who drinks so much spirit on an empty stomach? I’ll go down to the grocery and buy some sausage on credit.”

Tazo was staring at the wardrobe where he kept his Grandfather Frost’s red garment along with his other clothes. There was the hat and the boots there too. He hadn’t worn them for twenty years now. Everyone said they were out of fashion; the new Grandfather Frosts were different, too. Besides, they were accompanied by young girls, their “Grand-daughters Snows”. The name “Grandfather Frost” was out of date as well; they were called something he couldn’t remember.

He closed his eyes, recalling the New Year Eve of 1996. It was snowing heavily in Tbilisi. The streets were covered with slippery ice. He generally visited only a few streets in Vera district. He used to visit the families in the morning. Some families gave him gifts for their children beforehand, and to some places he traditionally brought only sweets. On New Year Eves the main event for the kids was the visit of the Grandfather Frost; it was the proof of his existence.

He had paid a visit to the Kordzadze family for the third time already. Little Reziko was looking at him with the eyes full of admiration.

“Grandfather Frost, may I touch your cloak?”

“Of course you may, buddy.”

“Grandfather Frost, do you want me to tell you a rhyme?”

“Sure, my best beloved. I’m all ears!”

“ Kartl-Kakheti, Imereti, Mengrelia and Guria –

All are native land to me, and to my heart they all are dear!”

“Bravo, Reziko, bravo! You are a very nice boy, and here is your present. I’ve received your letter and brought you the car you wanted so much. It works on batteries, you know, and when it runs into some obstacle, it turns round and proceeds its way.

“Oh, it’s just what I wanted! Thank you, Grandfather Frost! I love you so much! Do you give presents to the other kids, too? They must be waiting for you. You give presents to all of them, don’t you? The things they have asked you for.”

“Of course I do, my boy. If kids behave well, I always give presents to them.”

“How nice! How nice!”

***

“Are you asleep or what, old man? I’ve been knocking on the door for ages. Zoya opened it for me. She is a nice woman. If I were you, I would marry her and unite my flat with hers.”

“Stop kidding, old codger! I’m already dilapidated; it’s too late for me to think about the bonds of matrimony.”

“Don’t be stupid! Haven’t you heard about the eighty year old people who’ve got married quite recently? Here, take the soft cheese; they have given it to me on credit as well.”

“Who is going to pay for it all?”

“None of your business. Have you thought about my suggestion? Mind, if you don’t go to him on your own, I’ll tell Nodara and we will drag you by force!”

“Okay... But what shall I tell him? Dear man, I’m dying of hunger and be so kind as to give me a little money?”

“O, my god! How stupid you are at times! He owns a lot of factories and the other stuff like that. You just have to ask him to give you some kind of job at any of them; say, a job of a night watchman or something of the kind!”

“I don’t know really... have you got a cigarette?”

“You don’t have to know anything. Just visit him. Will he devour you for that?”

“Okay. Okay... Pour me another glass, will you?”

“Just shave and go, I tell you!”

“Okay, I will.”

***

It was a sunny winter morning. But there was a nip in the air. Tazo was walking along the street rather reluctantly. He was thinking over and over again about what to tell Reziko, but couldn’t decide on the exact words. All the thoughts mixed up in his head.

“Why do I worry that much? I’m not an actor to remember every word of my part. I’ll play it by ear,” the old man decided in the end and heaved a sigh of relief.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Tazo was startled.

“Yes, please. I want to see Mr. Kordzadze, Revaz Kordzadze.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I’m afraid, not. But he knows me well...” The old man was at a loss and a bit taken aback.

“Would you please go upstairs? There you will find Tsisana, his secretary. She will help you.”

“Thank you ever so much!”

“You’re welcome.”

Tazo hurried upstairs. The soles of his shoes were wet and they slipped on the marble floor.

It was very warm in the building. The staircase was incrusted with sophisticated figures. There were pictures, painted by famous artists, hanging on the walls, and there was a huge crystal glass luster hanging down from the ceiling at the top of the staircase.

“Excuse me Miss, you must be Tsisana, the secretary...”

“Just a moment, please,” the young woman answered and proceeded to talk over the telephone, grinding coffee and pretending to pull her mini skirt a bit down. “Yes, I was there. Reziko brought me the tickets. Mr. Kordzadze, I mean”, she corrected herself looking at the old man. “No, nothing of much interest, I’d say... Okay, I’ll call you back soon. Bye!” She hung up and addressed the old man:

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Kordzadze, please.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“No, but he knows me well. Will you please tell him it’s Tamaz Kapanadze from Belinski Street, the Grandfather Frost?”

“Shall I tell him you are the Grandfather Frost?”

“Exactly.”

Tsisana disappeared behind the double door. A bit later Tazo heard a hissing sound. It was the electric coffeepot. He leaned over the counter and switched it off. He caught a sight of the computer screen with the corner of his eye. It displayed some card game. “O my god! It seems they even play cards via computer now,” the old man thought.

The door opened and there appeared Tsisana with an irritated and annoyed air on her face.

“Are you sure you came to the right address?”

“Yes, I am. Isn’t it Revaz Kordzadze’s office?”

“It is. But Mr. Kordzadze couldn’t recall you, so he refused you of his audience.”

“Why? Have you told him that it was the Grandfather Frost from Belinski street?”

“Certainly, I have. I’m terribly sorry, sir.”

Tazo went down the street, crossed it at the bottom, headed towards the little park and sat there on a bench. He felt sick and broken, as if several men had beaten him with heavy sticks. He glanced in the direction of the street. Every inch was familiar to him: balconies, windows, trees, the florist’s. He forgot that he hadn’t eaten anything since morning. But it was not hunger that made him so sick; it was something else he could not recall now.

He sat on the bench for a while. Then he stood up, turned up the collar of his overcoat, and walked down the street slowly, with an unsteady gait.

August 7, 2005

Town of Scardu, Pakistan.

BY AND BY

Datiko had been working as a forester for the last fifteen years. He was a forester and a huntsman, two in one. He rarely visited the village. There was a little hut at one side of the forest, and he stayed there. His house in the village stood closed and deserted. After his wife’s death, he preferred to live in the forest. Everything in the house reminded him of his deceased better half, Tina. They didn’t have any children, so he remained quite alone. He visited the village only twice or three-times a year, and stayed in the house for only a couple of days. Then he hurried back to the forest, to his actual home.

He got used to solitude. He even spoke to himself aloud, discussing some serious matters.

He kept a tiny animal farm near the hut, with the livestock of one cow, one horse, about twenty chicken and four hives of bees. The horse was his favorite, of course. He had a low-paid job, but he earned enough to buy some flour and sugar.

In autumn he gathered wild pears and various berries in the forest and dried them in the sun for winter. He gathered a lot of mushrooms, too, so he made a good supply for the winter. He had a Russian iron stove in the hut, and he baked bread in it and kept the hut always warm.

He was not keen on hunting, though he had a rifle and could shoot very well.

“These evil people are neither hungry nor thirsty. So why do they kill poor animals?” he grumbled to himself.

Nevertheless, he always walked in the forest with his rifle. It was simply a matter of habit. Sometimes he even forgot to take the cartridge. He had a flair of a wild animal, and could guess the exact direction of the shot. Nobody could escape his sharp eye. He used to raid the hunters quite unexpectedly and deprive them of all their prey. He buried the hunted animals and birds in the forest with a mad expression on his face, and nobody could resist him at such moments. He had to shoot several times, and he had been even wounded once. As a result, he couldn’t bend one of his arms properly. In the end, everybody understood that he would never surrender, and they gave up their evil business. Who would enjoy such hunting?

The villagers now entered the forest only to gather the firewood. But they didn’t cut down the trees; they gathered only the dry branches.

Nobody loved the old man, but they all felt great respect and for him, and were afraid of him. He used to inspect the forest too often, but now he felt a terrible pain in his knee. He gathered some herbs, dried and boiled them, and drank the liquid as a remedy before his meal every morning.

He was rarely taken ill. Only once he had caught a very bad cold.

He ran a high fever and had been drinking the garlic juice mixed with vodka all night through. He didn’t consult a doctor. He simply stayed in bed for two days and recovered easily. He spent several days sitting by the furnace, thinking about Tina, his late wife. He dreamt about Tina in his sleep, too. Her death had changed the whole of his life. He was gradually becoming quite wild, and took no interest in socializing with anyone. Now he loved only the nature with which he had more in common than with the villagers.

He had favorite places in the forest. He visited those places quite often and spoke to the trees. At times he even heard their responses and thought he might have gone mad. Then he got used to this strange phenomenon. Beasts were not afraid of him; on the contrary, they felt some kind of close links with the old man.

Once, sitting by the furnace, he recalled that he last ate his chicken four years earlier, and the fact gave him a serious shock. He couldn’t understand what made him do so. Then he recalled that some of his chicken died of old age the previous year, and he buried them in the forest.

He had a notebook on the shelf. He made notes in it from time to time. The notes were very short and often rather ambiguous. Some of them contained only a couple of words, like: I made a giant walk, The creek tastes of hawthorn, The old oak is in trouble, The snipes are nowhere to be seen, The wild pears have ripened too early.He never read the old notes. He even had no idea, why he had made them.

It was already evening. He walked a lot in the forest that day. He tried to take different ways without beating new tracks. At times he found new places he had never visited before and rejoiced with all his heart. He was glad to see the virgin nature.

He put his wet socks and boots near the furnace, and lay down on the sofa. Soon he fell asleep. He was woken up by the morning frost. He put some wood into the furnace and started to string the dry mushrooms. At moments he stopped still, spotting his wife’s smiling face in front of him. “If she were alive, the life would be worth living,” he thought and gave up his job.

He went out. It was a cold morning of the late autumn. The grass was covered with dew. He thoughtlessly followed the path running along the forest. Then he entered the forest.

He walked along the path covered with high dry grass. He touched the trees on his way. The touch gave him some sort of comfort. He walked and walked for quite a while. Then he sat down on a log and gave an attentive look to the surroundings. The place was quite familiar to him. He felt terribly exhausted.

Suddenly he realized that he was lazy to live any longer.

August 25, 2005

A DREAM

Gogia was blind in both eyes. He learned to play the guitar in his childhood. His next door neighbor, Tamara, had been teaching him for a while. He was still a ten-year-old boy and had learned only several chords when the terrible misfortune fell upon him. Children poured some water into the bottle full of carbide and shook it. The bottle exploded and poor Gogia lost the sight. Doctors had been trying to help him for several months, but all in vain. He gave up his studies, stayed at home all the time and played the guitar. They say, he was brilliant on the guitar.

At the age of fifteen he could already play serious music. He would listen to the melody several times, and repeated it precisely, reproducing every sound.

It was impossible to imagine Gogia without his guitar. The neighbors would take him out into the courtyard of the old Georgian house every evening, and the show began. His teacher, Tamara, gave up playing, admitting she had brought up such a musician that there was no use of her playing any longer.

Gogia composed his own music too. His music was sweet and melodic. The neighbors enjoyed listening to it very much. Stout Tamaz was exceptionally crazy about it. ”Come on, buddy, play The Carousel, and don’t go away without playing The Palms,please!” Antonina liked Chardashbest of all. Lame Tengiz preferred the “tough, underworld songs.” He used to bring a stool from home and sat on it. He had tattoos all over his body, and was especially proud of the eight-pointed stars on his shoulders. “Only the genuine thieves and the ‘zone fathers’ can have such tattoos,” he used to say, but he wouldn’t say anything else about his life in Tulun prison.