Текст книги "Gia Tortladze Stories"

Ali Ibn Said lay dying in the desert. Two of his sons – the eldest and the middling – were standing by his side, watching him very attentively.

The sun was already setting, and the man lay dying in a tent. He could hardly speak but it was obvious he wanted to say something very important.

“You know what a life I lived. It was a sinful life, and I don’t want you to do the same,” the old man muttered.

“I have robbed a lot of caravans in this desert, and I have killed a lot of people. I kidnapped both my wives from a robbed caravan, and I killed their former husbands.”

It was hard for him to proceed, and his sons moisturized his lips.

“I don’t remember ever taking a pity on anybody, though many of my victims asked me to let them live. I know that I’m going to go to hell, for Allah will never forgive me my cruelty. None of my men are alive, and I’ll join them there in no time. Some of them died of old age, and others fell in the battles.”

He stopped talking for a while, took a little rest, and then went on.

“I was cruel to everyone I met in the desert. I was kind only to my wives and you, my children.”

“Allah is gracious, Father; he will have mercy on you and forgive you if you try to repent,” said the younger son.

“Don’t you interrupt me! It’s impossible to forgive me. What’s worse, I don’t regret anything. I have always taken pleasure in hurting people.

Once, a long time ago, I was having a rest in an oasis. My men had come to know that a huge caravan was traveling several riding days away from us. There were about hundred men, women and children in the caravan, and they were carrying a real fortune with them.

We had been preparing for the attack for two days. I gathered a group of thirty men. They were all bloodthirsty and ruthless fighters.”

The sons knew a lot about their father, but they had no idea of what he was telling them now.

“We soon caught up with them. Some twenty men were standing on guard of the caravan. We killed them all so quickly that they even were not able to resist us.”

The old man’s eyes shone with a strange delight; as if he was attacking his victims fiercely while talking to his sons.

He paused again, sipped some water and went on with his story:

“The men died like heroes. I have never regretted killing them. And I’ve never thought about their families. We left the bodies to the beasts, right in the desert.

We divided their fortune between us but it didn’t seem enough for us. So we decided to sell our captives into slavery in El-Bayda.*[15]

There was a long way ahead us, and we were short of food. We avoided the populated places.

I remember the greed with which we divided food between us. We took much for ourselves and gave too little to the captives. And we hardly gave any water to them.

I will never forget how a young woman begged me to give some water to her child. I got rid of her with the help of a whip. Next day the woman followed her way without the child.

Now I recall the exhausted and wizened faces of the children who were no longer able even to beg for anything.

I didn’t feel any sympathy for them. None of the children reached El-Bayda. We could have dropped in at some places and got some water, but we tried to avoid inevitable fights.

None of us felt sorry for the murdered and perished, or took a tiny wee bit of pity on them.”

The brothers listened to the description of the cruel events frozen all over. It was incredible that those atrocities were committed by a human, and that the human was their own father.

None of them tried again to comfort their dying father, assuring him that Allah would forgive him.

“You should have understood by now that I can’t be forgiven. So much so that I don’t even regret what I have done. At times I regret killing the children though, and that’s why I don’t want to die with my natural death. I want to experience the worst thing that might happen to an Arab. I want to die from the hand of my own sons. I want you to cut me to pieces and leave my remains in the desert to feast the animals.

You should know that it’s not a request, I have never asked you for anything; it’s my last order and you, my sons, have to obey it. Don’t be afraid. Allah will not punish you for this.

Doing so, you will kill a Shaitan[16] , and fulfill your father’s last will.”

***

The sun had already reached its zenith when the two warriors, riding loaded camels, set off, leaving the human remains behind them.

After some time, the elder one said with a feeble, broken voice: “Let Allah take mercy over our souls.”

They say, it all happened during the early years of the previous century.

Pakistan

June 20, 2011

STRAY DOGS

Them calls us stray dogs. So what? Let them do as them wishes. On the other hand, us isstray dogs indeed, for nobody don’t let us enter them homes, and we don’t have no masters.

A friend of mine from the neighborin’ quarter sleeps in various yards and entrance halls. So what? He is a smart doggie anyway. He can understand not only cursin’ and naggin’, but a normal speech of them humans. I mean it. And he hasn’t even spent no single day at school.

Them who is well-bred in the best families, them who done been taught how to give a paw to them masters or when to give them voices, are still awfully misbehaved. Them runs out into the street for five minute, pee at some wall, pollute the environment and rushes back to them clean and polished parquet floors again.

Have them done been taught at school to pollute them others’ habitat and then sleep peacefully, shampooed all over, in them comfortable easy-chairs? And them masters, them giant mans who walks them out, says nothing to that horrible fact. How can us manage to teach them a good lesson for this terrible disrespect? Them huge guys, the masters, is ready to call special organization that ‘takes care’ of the stray dogs, catches them, turns them into soap or sends them to the eternal sleep!

Nay, I ain’t not complaining. I just don’t understand why folks regards us as stray doggies and them as thoroughbreds? In what way is them better then us is? Is them smarter, prettier or better-behaved?

Us don’t relies on nobody. Us wins our own bread ourselves. It’s only a rare case when some good guy offers us a generous food nowadays. Them good guy folks vanished long ago. There was lots of them earlier though.

But in some way us is happier than them is, indeed. Them gets married after them masters’ will or with the help of the whole team of the match-makers. But us marries only the bitches us likes and loves. Believe me, if I take to some bitch, I can follow her to the other end of the city without no moment of hesitation.

Can them molly-coddles takes a sweet bone to them sweethearts from one end of the city to the other?

Them can my ass!

Pard’n me for using the impertinent tongue, for me is a stray dog. But every word me says comes from the bottom of me heart.

Everything comes from the bottom of us hearts – both hatred and love.

Them intelligent hounds done been taught to hunt or eat people up for ages. Wretched, ain’t it? If a person done no wrong to me, why should me eats him up? As for hunting, well, all of us done been after us game since us done born.

Us don’t dance to nobody else’s music. Us can never be led by the noses. Us hunt when us is hungry!

Well, me is not goin’ to sue you for the violation of us rights, of course. Neither is me goin’ to beg you to take care of us. It’s no use, me knows. But me will remind you of something: don’t forget that you should not ignore us. If there is some kind of problem in our district, us can solve it much better than them shampooed cuddle puppies.

So, my dear fellars, think twice before you calls us stray dogs and worship them artificial creatures.

Us has us own place in the city and under the sun. So you mind your P’s and Q’s while dealin’ with us!

Me apologizes for me ignorant talk. Me is a stray doggie, you know, and me lacks good breedin’.

Pakistan,

June 20, 2011.

THE CAPTAIN

In Casablanca, in the café Tubkala on the beach, you would often see an old sailor. His tanned face, rough features, thick, gnarled and a bit deformed fingers – all suggested that he had been at sea for a long time.

He spent most part of the day in the café or on the beach. When he got bored with sitting still in the café, he went out and took a slow walk along the shore. His clothes were fit for any sort of weather. Most of all he enjoyed taking a stroll in bad weather. He would put on his waterproof coat and, as if challenging the weather, walk as slowly as he could. At times he paused and gazed at the rough waters of the ocean, his gaze searching for someone or something beyond the huge waves.

The café was frequented by the young sailors who took their places making a loud noise. They got pretty drunk and left the café with the same loud noise.

At such instances, the old man seemed even more sunken in his sad thoughts. He kept his eye on the young sailors, and sometimes even didn’t quite catch what the waiters said to him.

Usually, he didn’t drink much. More often he smoked a lot, and gazed at the ocean through the café window.

The rumor went that he used to be the captain of a huge cargo ship for quite a while, and that his ship wrecked and most of his men perished in a terrible storm near Port Elizabeth. Only he and a few of his sailors had survived. The natives also claimed that he could never recover after this tragic event and the nasty feeling of guilt. There were a lot of other stories about the old man, but nobody knew anything for sure.

He was word-grudging. His orders were short and laconic, and if anyone tried to talk to him, he gave them only brief answers just to show that he didn’t feel like having a long conversation.

Nobody knew where he lived. In the late evenings, right before the café closed for night, he went out and strolled along the shore very slowly.

The years passed by indifferently, resembling one another, until one fine day the old man came to the café accompanied by a dog. He tied the dog near the entrance and asked the waiter to give him a small bowl. Since then he always fed the dog out of that bowl.

The man and the dog took long walks together and went home together. It was quite impossible to state the breeding of the dog, but it was beautiful and seemed to be quite clever.

Those days nobody could imagine the captain without his dog. They were together all the time. You could see the old man kneeling on the beach, saying something to his companion. The companion listened to him very attentively, as if catching the meaning of every word. The man treated the animal like his peer and never talked to him in a baby talk or showed any kind of disrespect towards him.

In short, the old man’s life changed thoroughly. He wasn’t seen alone any more, and he even cheered up a little.

Days went by, and everyone noticed that those two proved to be alike. They even walked with the same gait – slow and solemn. Whenever the old man stopped, the dog immediately sat down by his feet, and they gazed at the ocean for hours.

When the winter arrived, the old man made a warm coat for the dog. They walked all day long in the city, always along the shore, of course.

In the café people tried to choose a proper name for the dog, but the old man chose it himself and addressed him as Mr. Fisher.

Nobody had any idea who Mr. Fisher was or why the old man gave this name to his dog.

***

It was already evening, and there were a few people in the café. As usual, the old man was sitting by the window, gazing at the ocean. Time and again he looked at the dog lying quietly at the door and smiled at him. Then he looked back at the ocean.

The door of the café opened with a loud bang and several drunk men came in. They took their seats by the counter and started to talk aloud.

Some time later, one of them stood up and noticed the dog.

“Hey, look at the bastard! I’ve been looking for him for ages, and here he is! He even has a collar!” the man admitted, trying to pool the leash. The dog gnashed his teeth and retreated a little.

“Now gnashing your teeth at me, hah?” – shouted the man and gave the poor dog a strong kick on his side.

The dog groaned and bit the man on his foot.

The events developed dramatically.

“You son of a bitch!” the man screamed, took a small gun out of his pocket and fired two shots at the poor dog.

The dog fell down dead.

The old man stood up slowly, went towards the man, took a large jack-knife out of his pocket and stabbed him twice between his ribs.

* * *

The trial didn’t take long. There were only a few people in the court when the judge asked the accused what the motive of the murder was. There followed a brief but very clear answer:

“He killed my friend!”

After a short pause, he added:

“He killed my last hope!”

Nobody had seen the old man since then. Some people say that having served his time, he went to live in another city. Some others claim that he died in the prison. But nobody is deeply concerned with his fate.

Pakistan

July 2, 2011

A PILGRIM

There was a very long way ahead, and very little food left. He was shuffling along the road with great difficulty. His clothes were ragged. Now and again he leaned on his stick, resting a little. Then he proceeded his way. He drank water out of the creeks he happened to come across.

Villages were scarce on his way. He visited them full of hope, and left them totally disappointed.

He asked for charity at every house, but he had never been shown in. He spent nights outside. It was a rare case when somebody offered him a piece of bread.

He had been traveling for quite a while now, and everywhere he stopped he was met with indifference, and was even laughed at. Now he knew for sure that sympathy – one of the major traits of humanity – had disappeared forever. Having left one of the villages, he stopped in a meadow and meditated for a long time.

He recalled nearly every village he had visited.

Something sank down his stomach.

He was extremely exhausted.

He looked up into the sky. He kept looking for some time, and then he muttered to himself:

“What has happened to these poor creatures, I wonder?”

He kept thinking for a little while, and then added:

“It seems it’s very early yet.”

He sat down.

He kept sitting for a while, and then he suddenly vanished.

Pakistan

July 3, 2011

M HOMECOMING

That day the weather was wretched. It was raining heavily, and the evening gloom was falling rapidly.

A middle-aged man, soaking wet and stooping under the weight of his drenched clothes, was walking slowly along the street. He seemed to be indifferent to the rain since he was walking with a peaceful air on his face.

He attempted to light a cigarette but he couldn’t, his cigarette and matches soaking instantly. He threw them away, put his hands into his pockets, shivered a little, and went on walking.

There was nobody in the street. Only a couple of cars passed by, and he also spotted a stray dog running across the street and round the corner.

The man, Otar by the name, knew where he was heading for, but he was not in a hurry. Perhaps, it was of no use hurrying any more – he had been already wet through anyway.

He stopped at the familiar house.

“I haven’t been here for some twenty or even thirty years,” he thought and rang the bell.

The door was answered by a woman of forty. She couldn’t recognize him at once, but when she did, her face froze in amazement.

“When did you arrive?” she asked in a low voice, having regained her senses.

“Today morning,” Otar answered looking into her eyes.

The rain was pouring down his head, sticking his hair to his face, but the man stood still.

“Come in, you are wet all over,” the woman murmured.

Otar went in, took off his wet, old-fashioned overcoat and put it down at the wall. Only now he felt how very chilled he was. He coughed a couple of times and swept his wet hair back with his hands in embarrassment.

They went into the sitting room. Nothing had changed here, except that everything seemed a bit faded in the course of time. The fire was blazing in the same fireplace, tiled in brown tiles, like some twenty years ago.

Otar wanted to take a seat, but he was ashamed, for he was wet. So he went up to the fireplace and exposed himself to the blazing fire. He felt better now, and he relaxed, letting his thoughts carry him away into the past.

He was deeply attached to this house where he had spent nearly half of his adolescence and youth.

He remembered this room, brightly lit up at birthday parties that used to last till dawn; He remembered the small wine glasses, the high flown toasts so much typical of the young men; the out of place laughter of the girls; the gramophone, and the hard, thick gramophone records; and how they saw the girls home at dawn, walking along the empty streets.

Then, suddenly, it all sank into the mist.

Now he heard the sound of the cargo train wheels, of the shaking about wooden carriages; the human voices speaking foreign languages at different stations; the clicking and groaning of the carriage doors when the huge cans of hot water were brought in – that cherished and blessed hot water that kept their bellies warm for a while, going in gulps down their throats and their stomaches.

He felt drowsy.

He could see the frozen barrack, a glimmering bulb swinging outside, and a cross-cut saw – the only means of keeping oneself a little warm.

They walked along the narrow path cut in the crispy snow, wearing felt boots. They walked to the place of work a bit high-spirited, and came back shuffling, thoroughly exhausted.

He remembered the first tree he had cut down. It fell down with a loud crash. He watched the falling giant, still alive, with his eyes full of frozen tears.

Soon he got used to this horrible scene. With every fallen tree there started a new episode, so much resembling the previous ones abundant in yellowish faces, hollow cheeks, silenced coughing, low and rumbling sound of the lungs, and the typhoid fever that rapidly decreased the number of the imprisoned in the barracks.

There were all sorts of people around: people of different faiths and different cultures: the bearded ones, the ones with Finish knives hidden in their boots, those with close cropped moustaches, and those with round faces, as well as those who got double portions of food and visited the administrative building pretty often.

Suddenly he came back to reality again.

He felt a warm touch of a hand on his shoulder.

“What would you like to drink?”

“Hot water,” he answered, smiling at his odd answer.