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.
Hot tea with sugar and a slice of lemon felt very pleasant. It warmed his stomach first and then the whole of his body.
His clothes had already dried on him.
He didn’t feel cold any more.
He felt a pain, but he didn’t know where it came from.
It was difficult for him to start conversation.
The woman took the initiative.
“Why didn’t you write to me?”
“There was nothing to write about. I simply had to bear it all.”
“Did you?”
“No,” he said and smiled again.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Nothing. I’ve returned. That’s what matters now.
He kept silent and still for a while, thinking about something. Then he ran his hands down his grey face, coughed again and sipped his tea.
The woman looked at his hands and sank into the memories.
She remembered those hands playing the piano with the long, ivory fingers, and the audience listening to the charming sounds of the instrument. She remembered the happy faces of the girls that were in love with him. She remembered Mozart, Schubert, and Rachmaninoff. She remembered the compliments said in his address and him, casting his eyes down in embarrassment.
The sound of strange silenced and deep cough dragged her back to the miserable reality.
She now stared at his face.
Hollow eyes, dark grey complexion, protruded cheek bones, firmly shut mouth, sharp chin and frozen glance.
“Tell me something. Why are you sitting like a dumb?” the woman protested.
“I’m tired, a bit tired,” he said smiling humbly, like he would smile some twenty years ago.
***
It was drizzling a little.
The procession consisted of ten people.
They stopped at the old grave fenced with a rusted iron fence.
They lowered the coffin into the grave silently.
Two undertakers were helping them.
They drank several glasses of wine, sprinkling the grave with half a glass.
Nobody shed a single tear.
They finished their job and stood still at the gates of the graveyard for a while.
“Let’s go to my place,” the tall man suggested.
“No. Otar was fond of my house; he would prefer to go there,” the woman answered.
“Okay,” the tall man agreed.
“Anyway, it’s good he managed to arrive,” the short fat man admitted rubbing his chilled hands.
It was late autumn.
The streets were covered with dry leaves.
November, 2011
Tbilisi
AUTUMN ARRIVED
It was rather cold. The wind was sweeping the dry leaves to and fro.
A man in a worn-out coat was sitting on a bench in the garden. He was wearing a faded hat that must have been black long ago. He was sitting there with his hands in his pockets and looking down at the ground.
He was concerned with the planets.
“If the sun loses its heat, what will become of all these people on the earth? They will turn into icicles”, he thought.
“The Jupiter protects us... Otherwise, numerous small planets would crash into the earth and the terrible disaster would be inevitable. If, god forbid, the Jupiter looses gravitation, what will become with all these people?” he went on thinking.
“We, the humans, are the result of the disaster...Might it be that another disaster puts an end to the mankind?” He kept thinking and looking at the ground. “What makes them all, those poor souls, sleep so peacefully?” he whispered looking back at high building with the dark windows through which two stout women in white overalls were looking.
“They say he used to be a great scientist. Did you know that?” one of them admitted.
“So what? You’d better change the spiral in the heater or else we’ll freeze tonight” the other replied. Then she opened the window with a loud creaking and addressed the old man: “It’s time to be injected. Would you please come up, sir?”
The old man, with his hands still in his pockets, got up obediently and walked along the path leading to the building.
“How carefree they are”, he said in a low voice and sank deep into his thoughts again.
The wind was blowing furiously now, sweeping the leaves into one direction.
Somewhere far away a new planet was being born.
July 16, 2012.
Tbilisi.
[1] Nanga-Patra – one of the Himalayan peaks.
[2] Diamroi – a village in North Pakistan, in the gorge of Diamir.
[3] Nana – uncle.
[4] Makai chipati – a north Pakistani dish.
[5] Bogotá – the capital city of Columbia
[6] Siesta – the midday break in Spanish-speaking countries.
[7] Dal-bat – A Nepali dish.
[8] Kurti – white salted balls of dry milk.
[9] Nanga-Parbat – a mountain in Pakistan.
[10] Shimshal – a mountainous village in North Pakistan.
[11] Chilas – a town in North Pakistan.
[12] Namche Bazaar – the main settlement in Solo Khumbu.
[13] Pokara – the second biggest town in Nepal.
[14] Lomtang – a small settlement in the province of Mustang
[15] . El-Bayda – a city in Libya.
[16] Shaitan - Satan