In no time at all, he opened his eyes wide to the sky-spanning glare of a blinding blue sun.
4
Gordi
Gordi Lado, shaking his head in sad embarrassment, left Kaye in Beck’s care to return to Tbilisi. He could not be away from the Eliava Institute for long.
The UN took over the small Rustaveli Tiger in Gordi, renting all of the rooms. The Russians pitched more tents and slept between the village and the graves.
Under the pained but smiling attention of the innkeeper, a stout black-haired woman named Lika, the UN peacekeepers ate a late supper of bread and tripe soup, served with big glasses of vodka. Everyone retired to bed shortly after, except for Kaye and Beck.
Beck pulled a chair up to the wooden table and placed a glass of white wine in front of her. She had not touched the vodka.
“This is Manavi. Best they have here — for us, at any rate.” Beck sat and directed a belch into his fist. “Excuse me. What do you know about Georgian history?”
“Not a lot,” Kaye said. “Recent politics. Science.”
Beck nodded and folded his arms. “Our dead mothers,” he said, “could conceivably have been murdered during the troubles — the civil war. But I don’t know of any actions in or around Gordi.” He made a dubious face. “They could be victims from the 1930s, the ‘40s, or the 1950s. But you say no. Good point about the roots.” He rubbed his nose and then scratched his chin. “For such a beautiful country, there’s a fair amount of grim history.”
Beck reminded Kaye of Saul. Most men his age somehow reminded Kaye of Saul, twelve years her senior, back on Long Island, far away in more than just distance. Saul the brilliant, Saul the weak, Saul whose mind creaked more every month. She sat up and stretched her arms, scraping the legs of her chair against the tile floor.
“I’m more interested in her future,” Kaye said. “Half the pharmaceutical and medical companies in the United States are making pilgrimages here. Georgia’s expertise could save millions.”
“Helpful viruses.”
“Right,” Kaye said. “Phages.”
“Attack only bacteria.”
Kaye nodded.
“I read that Georgian troops carried little vials filled with phages during the troubles,” Beck said. “They swallowed them if they were going into battle, or sprayed them on wounds or burns before they could get to hospital.”
Kaye nodded. “They’ve been using phage therapy since the twenties, when Felix d’Herelle came here to work with George Eliava. D’Herelle was sloppy; the results were mixed back then, and soon enough we had sulfa and then penicillin. We’ve pretty much ignored phages until now. So we end up with deadly bacteria resistant to all known antibiotics. But not to phages.”
Through the window of the small lobby, over the roofs of the low houses across the street, she could see the mountains gleaming in the moonlight. She wanted to go to sleep but knew she would lie awake in the small hard bed for hours.
“Here’s to the prettier future,” Beck said. He lifted his glass and drained it. Kaye took a sip. The wine’s sweetness and acidity made a lovely balance, like tart apricots.
“Dr. Jakeli told me you were climbing Kazbeg,” Beck said. “Taller than Mont Blanc. I’m from Kansas. No mountains at all. Hardly any rocks.” He smiled down at the table, as if embarrassed to meet her gaze. “I love mountains. I apologize for dragging you away from your business…and your pleasure.”