The parade begins with schoolchildren, followed by workers from the metal plant and then other factories and institutions. We infiltrate the contingent of shop workers, waiting till we are about 40 metres from the platform of dignitaries before falling into a group. This way the police have no time to seize us and pull us out.
The bigwigs on the platform know the order of the march so that they can shout appropriate slogans to each section.
“We greet the first of May with the highest respect for study!” they cry to the school children.
“Hoorah!” respond the kids with a half-hearted cheer.
“The world’s youth are the vanguard of Communism!” they shout to the students.
“Hoorah!” cry the students, with even less enthusiasm.
“More goods! Cheaper and better!” they shout to the bazaar traders.
“Hoorah!” they mutter back, no doubt thinking, ‘surely to God not, otherwise how are we going to survive?’
“A healthy mind in a healthy body!” they call to us, for according to their programme we should be doctors.
“Hoorah!” we roar at the top of our lungs, unfurling our banner. The loudest of all is Lousy Vassya. Pulling a hand out of his armpit he waves at the town’s fathers. They stand in shock, rictus grins on their faces. As we march past I catch sight of them whispering to each other. I fear we won’t see that barrel of wine, but I’m wrong. The barrel appears in the evening and we don’t need telling what to do with it.
A few days later the police come to question us. Fortunately they only laugh and decide to overlook the matter. It would be too embarrassing to take us to court.
Not long after the parade Lousy Vassya overhears two Georgians arguing over whether anyone can drink a litre of chacha straight down. Vassya volunteers to try. He has been drunk since morning and wants to show off. He tips the bottle to his lips and swallows the chacha in great gulps. He just manages to draw the back of his hand across his mouth before he falls to the ground, black in the face. By the time someone has called an ambulance he is dead.
Vakho and many bazaar traders donate money to bury Vassya. We hold such a wake that it’s a wonder no one follows Vassya to the next world.
11
Beggars
The 1980s
I grow bored of Zestafoni and decide to try my luck in the capital. Perhaps I’ll cut down on my drinking, clean up and find some sort of permanent job.
On New Year’s Day I arrive in Tblisi. This time I know better than to hang around the station so I take a trolleybus into town. Usually I avoid public transport: you can never get your bearings through the filthy windows. I prefer to walk the streets of a strange city to orientate myself. But this morning I’m tired and in urgent need of a hair-of-the-dog.
In the town centre I stop at a beer-stall. It’s crowded and I have to look around for some elbow space. A voice growls: “Over here mate!”
I go across to three men, alkashi by the look of them. The one who hailed me sports a pair of broken glasses and a pointed beard. “Where are you from?” he asks.
“From where the wind blows.”
“And where d’you stay?”
“Where the night finds me.”
“And what do they call you?”
“Ivan.”
“Ivan the what?”
“Just Ivan.”
“Nothing in this world is simple. not even a boil can lance itself. I know Ivan Moneybags and Ivan the Terrible… Which one are you?”
“None. I’m from Chapaevsk.”
“Let me see… the Terrible was the Fourth so that makes you Ivan the Fifth.”
He holds out his hand: “Kalinin.”
“Kalinin who?”
“Kalinin the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet!” he laughs. “Now we must drink to this meeting!”
Everyone rummages in their pockets. I offer a rouble but Kalinin puts out his hand to stop me.
“Today you’re our guest!”
One of my new friends runs across the road to a wine shop and returns with a bottle of champagne. I’m disappointed, but Kalinin gives me a sly wink and approaches another table where several well-dressed Georgians are gathered. Wishing them a Happy New Year, he offers them the champagne. Then he returns to our table. In a few minutes the Georgians have sent over two bottles of champagne, a half-litre of vodka, and a dozen beers. We plunge into the beer and vodka. After a while we send the two bottles of champagne over to another group of Georgians. In an hour there are so many bottles on our table there’s not even room to rest your elbow.
Kalinin used to be a physics teacher He really does look like the former Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR and he shrewdly exploits this resemblance.
“When I strike my pose on the Elbakidze bridge people stop and stare. Then they feel obliged to throw me a coin. You can find me on the bridge at any time; the cops leave me alone as long as I keep quiet. Trouble is, after I’ve had a few the urge comes over me to deliver a speech. My oratorical talent has landed me in the spets a few times.”
When night falls Kalinin shows me a place to sleep. Under one of Tblisi’s parks there is a cavern housing steam pipes that heat the city. In winter every railway prostitute, beggar, tramp and thief drifts to that cavern. Some are so weakened by illness and booze that they hardly ever leave the place. Others go about their business by day and gather again in the evening bringing food and drink. All night long the cavern rocks with songs, curses and fights.
It’s a murky place, lit only by candles stolen by church beggars. Rats scurry over the bodies of sleeping tramps. The floor is covered in crusts of bread, slimy pieces of rotting liver sausage and shattered eau de Cologne bottles. Wine and vodka empties are collected early in the morning. We sleep on cardboard discarded by furniture stores. On my second night one of the sick vagrants dies. We all leave the cavern, someone tips off the police and we make ourselves scarce while they come to collect the body.
Hippies have made their appearance in Georgia by this time and some of them try to join us. We despise them as dilettantes and kick them out of the cavern whenever they hang around for too long. Once in a while, however, some Tblisi artist or intellectual decides he want to experience life in the lower depths — and offers to pay for the privilege. Then we put on a real feast with songs and folk dances. We tramps know perfectly well what’s expected of us and earn the bottles that our visitors bring. Putting our arms around our free-spirited friends we spin endless yarns about our lives, sparing no harrowing detail.
One of our bacchanalia ends in a police raid. Nervous about entering our cavern, the cops send in dogs first. A tramp warns me that they’ll use CS gas to flush us out if we don’t leave of our own accord. As we emerge they throw us into waiting Black Marias. A cop grabs me but the confusion distracts him and I manage to slip away. I spend the rest of the night in the park and decide I will avoid the cavern in future.
The morning after the raid finds me wandering aimlessly down Plekhanov Avenue, hungry as a wolf-pack in winter. My head is a barrel of pain and grief; my brains splash about somewhere in its depths. I break into a cold sweat at the sudden hoot of a car. I feel that people on the other side of the street are watching me and whispering words of vicious condemnation. Penniless, I scour the beer-stalls but meet not a single acquaintance. I’m about to breathe my last yet I’m too scared to ask a stranger for a few kopecks. I slink along, keeping close to the wall and my eyes on the ground.
“Have you lost something?” says a voice above my head. A tall beggar stands with his back to the wall, propped up on two crutches.
“A purse — except I haven’t lost mine; I’m hoping to find someone else’s.”