The Eighth Life

by Nino Haratischwili

  She knew what remedy could make Sopio forget her worries and make her herself again, but Stasia was afraid. The last time she had made the hot chocolate for someone, her father’s prophecy had been fulfilled. Since then, she had been unable to banish the image of Thekla’s stiff body from her memory. But how could she be sure that her father’s chocolate was responsible for Thekla’s death? Wasn’t it the poison that had rocked Thekla into eternal sleep? Wasn’t it the times they lived in, the war, the hopelessness that led to her end? Perhaps her father was wrong; perhaps the link he had made between misfortune and this mysterious drink was just a figment of his imagination. Perhaps it was the guilt he felt at having pressured his wife into having another child that had caused him to make this strange assumption — that the chocolate was to blame for Ketevan’s death. And anyway, he himself had claimed that she, Stasia, had ‘survived the calamity’. So what was she to make of it all? If this supposed calamity had not touched her, then it would be even less likely to harm her brave and fiery friend. No, it was clearly childish to accept this absurd conjecture so blindly; there was no logic to it.

  The ‘speculators’ had cinnamon, the best cacao in the city could be found in the Jewish quarter, and there was brown sugar and cloves in Christine’s pantry, as well as the other, secret ingredients.

  Two hours later she returned, with a bag full to bursting, and made the hot chocolate for the first time since Thekla’s death.

  *

  Stasia went to the little, blackened stove, and, after a few minutes, the aroma began to envelop the apartment, the staircase, the back courtyard.

  ‘What are you making?’ asked Sopio, puzzled.

  ‘I’m making my hot chocolate.’

  ‘You’re making chocolate for me?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you make hot chocolate before.’

  ‘It’s a secret recipe; I can’t give to anyone, not even you. It has to stay in the family. My father made me swear to it.’

  ‘I feel like I’m part of a conspiracy. Come on, it’s only chocolate.’

  Sopio laughed. For the first time in days.

  And, of course, Sopio, too, fell for Stasia’s hot chocolate, and even when it became increasingly expensive and difficult to obtain the necessary ingredients, it seemed to be the only thing that could drive away her gloom and conjure a smile back onto her face — and so Stasia went on making her magic drink for her friend twice a week.

  *

  Christine was expecting an important visitor. The children were dressed in their Sunday best, the whole house was decorated with lilac blossom, the silver came out of the cupboards, and her most expensive dress was taken out of the wardrobe. Fresh food was bought from the market and wine ordered from Kakheti. For two days, there was a state of emergency in the house of the busy Party Secretary Ramas Iosebidze (who was overweight and now almost completely bald) and his wife Christine (as wonderfully pretty as she had always been).

  Stasia arrived in the middle of the morning’s preparations. ‘What’s going on? Is someone from Moscow coming?’ she asked her sister.

  Christine — with slices of cucumber on her face and olive oil in her hair — just gave an exasperated groan and shook her head. ‘You really don’t pick up on anything, do you?’

  She seemed anxious, and Stasia resisted the temptation to respond to her sister in kind. Simon may have been sending money every month, but it certainly wasn’t enough to finance the lifestyle to which Stasia had now become accustomed.

  Later, the cook told her that they were expecting the head of the secret service himself, the friend of the family, along with a few of Ramas’ other colleagues. His superior, she said, was a great connoisseur of good food and fine wine. A great lover of opera and fine art, like the man of the house himself. That may have been the first time Stasia considered what exactly it was her brother-in-law did, and who his friends were. A peculiar sensation made her shudder. She couldn’t put it into words, she told me years later; it was as if something were cutting off her air supply.

  She hurried over to Kostya and Kitty, who were quarrelling over some treat or other, and ordered them to come with her, intending to take the children and spend the night at Sopio’s. Just then, Christine came into the hallway and stared at her, nonplussed.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’ll leave you to your preparations. We’ll stay at Sopio’s tonight.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘What do you need me for? You know I don’t particularly care for these dinners.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who we’re expecting? You can go, as far as I’m concerned, but the children are staying here. They’re going to meet him because one day they’ll be glad to have made his acquaintance. Kostya, Kitty, come to Auntie!’

  And the pair of them, with their ribbons and patent-leather shoes, almost seemed relieved as they ran to their pretty aunt, who managed not to look ridiculous even with slices of cucumber on her face.

  That must have made Stasia feel incredibly mean. She stayed, and bore witness to the Little Big Man eating the quails in coriander sauce, drinking the Georgian wine, giving grandiose speeches about their homeland and the jewels of its cuisine, telling anecdotes, while everyone round the table fawned and exclaimed, ‘How enchanting’, ‘Oh, how fabulous’, ‘Incredible!’ and smoothed the tablecloth with their trembling fingers. And the man with the pince-nez began eyeing her sister like an animal he was determined to bring down, his gaze growing ever more brazen and aggressive as he stared at her shapely lips, her small breasts, and her slim wrists, and embarked on a tipsy ten-minute toast to Georgian beauty without taking his eyes off Christine for a second. And her husband sat there nodding contentedly, smiling peaceably, and his chin quivered just a little.

  By that time, if not before, Stasia knew that the skin of the world would tear. She knew that the earth would disgorge itself and the ruins would become visible, that a bottomless fissure would run through all the centuries, splitting the earth open to reveal a blood-soaked abyss.

  Later, as the Little Big Man stood smoking his pipe in the garden with Christine and her husband, chatting to his hosts, and, his tongue now thoroughly loosened, saying something obscene at which they were forced to laugh, Stasia stood in the lavishly decorated dining room and observed them through the window. She observed his every gesture, the way he casually touched her sister’s elbow; she saw his teeth flash in the dim light of the garden every time he let out a drunken bark of a laugh at one of his own jokes, and hated herself for not running out there and pulling her little sister away from them. Christine, demonstrating remarkable acting skills, was not letting her feelings show. Or could she actually be enjoying the attentions of this awful man? Stasia quickly banished the thought.

  *

  In 1931, Kitty was in her second year at the Russian girls’ school, where she was already attracting attention with her strikingly full lips, her curly chestnut-brown hair, and her honey-brown, almond-shaped eyes. Kostya had grown into a tall, handsome boy with jug ears and the same chestnut hair, but straight. He was top of his class, and gave the appearance of being older and more serious than most of the other boys. That year, the Little Big Man finally became head of the Georgian Communist Party. He appointed Ramas Iosebidze as his private secretary.

  Sopio now barely left her apartment, and was only able to make ends meet with help from her friends. She had no more pupils, and was banned from publishing after the writers’ union told her that her work fell outside the social norms and morality of the great Socialist Republic.

  One afternoon, the head of the Communist Party telephoned the Iosebidze residence. He was put through to the lady of the house. The phone call lasted a quarter of an hour. Afterwards, Christine was collected by a black Bugatti. She was wearing her red, sequinned chiffon dress, her long black velvet gloves, and the
black hat with the peacock feather. At the opera, the head of the Party received her in person, in his box, and showed her to the seat next to his. The opera was Bellini’s Norma — which, astonishingly, had not (or not yet) been banned for its religious content.

  During the ‘Casta Diva’ aria, rustling and whispering could be heard from the box. Countless heads turned discreetly towards the royal seats: in the dim light from the stage, they could make out the figure of a woman who was definitely not the head of the Party’s wife. Then there was nothing more to be seen. But at the line ‘Ah! bello a me ritorna’, a woman’s hand appeared in a black velvet glove, clinging to the red velvet balustrade. At ‘Del fido amor primiero’ there was the sound of something heavy falling to the floor. At ‘E contro il mondo intiero’, some may have heard a suppressed scream. And at ‘Difesa a te sarò’, slowly and hesitantly, the hand withdrew.

  The couple were the last to leave the auditorium. The audience had already departed by the various exits, and the rumour quickly spread that the head of the Party had not enjoyed the performance, as his applause had not been particularly enthusiastic. This occasioned weeping in the ensemble, but the rumour was false. Later, the head of the Party even made a public announcement to the effect that he had enjoyed the performance very much. The truth was that he had seen nothing of it, or only very little. The truth was that Christine’s chiffon dress was crumpled and her make-up had run, and they had waited until the hall was empty to allow them to get back to the Bugatti without being seen.

  Since Ramas was in Kiev, at a conference on how to solve the agricultural question, Christine went to sit in the reception room and asked for some cherry liqueur. Stasia, woken by loud noises and the slamming of doors, came downstairs and saw her dishevelled sister drinking, at alarming speed, straight from the bottle.

  ‘What’s happened? Is it Ramas?’

  ‘Oh, no, he’s all right. Everything’s fine. Come and have a drink.’

  ‘But where have you been?’

  ‘It was just a little rendezvous, without obligation.’

  After numerous attempts to get more information out of her sister, Stasia eventually gave up and started knocking back the sweet, sticky liqueur to try and keep pace with her.

  Over the next few days there were more phone calls, and each time Christine would disappear for several hours afterwards.

  The workers of the Soviet Union will live

  ever better, ever more joyfully!

  POSTER SLOGAN

  Over the next few months, the private secretary’s mandatory official trips doubled in number, and Christine’s outings trebled. Ramas was busy with issues of espionage, exit visas, the press, the administration of the gulags; the Little Big Man was busy trying to satisfy his insatiable hunger for feminine beauty.

  I don’t know what made Stasia do it, but one afternoon she followed the black Bugatti that came to collect her sister after these phone calls. I don’t know whether Stasia followed on horseback, or took the tram, or an automobile; what I do know is that she arrived at the grandest villa in the city, reminiscent of a villa somewhere in South America, with a beautiful garden full of exotic plants and palm trees that screened the house from curious eyes. Everyone in the city knew whose house this was, and that it wasn’t just the master who came and went there, but some of the city’s most beautiful women, too. Stasia watched the black car pass through the gilded gates with her sister inside.

  Back at Christine’s house, she sat down at the long table in the kitchen and didn’t move until her sister returned late that evening. Stasia had given the staff the evening off and sent the children up to their room early. Something in her voice had made the two of them realise that resistance would not be tolerated, and they obeyed.

  Christine came into the kitchen, took off her shoes, picked up the liqueur bottle, and sat down with her sister. Stasia, rendered almost sexless by the years of hunger in Petrograd and the bitter aftertaste of her Red Lieutenant’s love, and Christine, blooming in her femininity and elegance. Stasia, wearing a plain, calf-length cotton dress with tiny buttons, and Christine, in a claret-coloured jacket with a hand-embroidered collar and a floor-length black silk skirt. Stasia drew on her cigarette and stared, glassy-eyed, at the floor. Christine was babbling about the weather and holiday plans and the stresses of city life when Stasia interrupted her.

  ‘I followed you.’

  For a long time, Christine didn’t reply. She just went on drinking her liqueur. Then she whispered, ‘Why?’

  They sat facing each other like two moles, frightened and blinded by the light, staring as if recognising each other for the first time.

  ‘I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t believe you were really doing this.’

  ‘What? What am I doing?’ Christine yelled. Stasia realised it was the first time she had ever heard her sister shout.

  ‘You …’ said Stasia, but her voice failed her.

  ‘I have to do it.’

  ‘Why do you have to do it?’

  ‘Well, someone has to lay themselves on the butcher’s slab so the others can go on celebrating, don’t they?’

  Stasia suddenly heard so much contempt, so much spite, so much self-hatred in Christine’s voice that it frightened her, and she instinctively shifted away from her a little on her chair.

  ‘You disgust me.’

  ‘But the good life, the wonderful food and the nice clothes, the day trips, the private lessons, the good schools for your children — they don’t disgust you?’

  ‘I never asked for those things. Why, why, Christine? Ramas has money enough.’

  ‘You understand so little, so little, sometimes I could scream in disbelief! You still don’t understand just who he is and what he’s capable of, do you? Can you still not see where it is we live?’

  Christine abruptly fell silent, took a generous swig from the bottle, and left the room.

  The future had become the present.

  Everything would arouse mistrust; words and hearts would become battlegrounds. They would slip into tunnels that offered no way out. Stasia would have to fight, but what was worth fighting for when everything had begun to taste of hopelessness? Where could you look and not see the teeth of the Little Big Men laughing in your face? How tightly would you have to shut your eyes from now on, to avoid seeing the ruins being unearthed? How much effort would it take to laugh, when you could feel all those bodies beneath your feet?

  Stasia closed her eyes and saw Thekla before her, rosy, laughing, she was reaching out to her, calling her — Stasia quickly opened her eyes again to escape her ghosts, but it seemed reality was filled with ghosts as well.

  *

  In the first week of January 1932, the Little Big Man assumed the leadership of the Communist Party in the whole of the Transcaucasian Republic, and transferred his private secretary to the Party headquarters in Baku, meaning that Ramas Iosebidze only got to see his wife on the last weekend of every month. A new wave of peasant deportations and mass executions was in progress — it wasn’t yet apparent in the cities, but it was getting closer, creeping slowly into the metropolises. There were stories of marauding gangs of children all over Russia, of miserably long queues outside grocers’ shops, of female workers selling their bodies to feed their families. Stories of editors who had strayed from the ‘happy and joyous life’ and been arrested. Stories of millions of peasants who had been executed or deported from Ukraine to Kazakhstan over the previous two years. And people saw the state-sponsored posters that read: ‘To eat your own children is an act of barbarism!’

  The people of the sunny Southern Caucasus had not yet felt much of this; they might know someone who knew someone to whom something had happened, but they still hadn’t felt it, they still didn’t want to see it.

  All the same, Stasia was worried, not just for Christine, but also for Sopio, who often stayed out all nig
ht and hardly spoke to her friend any more.

  When Stasia confronted her about it, Sopio avoided the question and invented excuses. The first night Sopio disappeared, Stasia knew that this was the end of her self-imposed asceticism and seclusion in her dingy apartment; or rather, she knew that Sopio, following her natural inclination, had begun to rebel. Stasia was tormented by doubts and indecision, afraid of the dreams that had died and afraid of a life without dreams. She was tormented by Sopio’s silence, and by her fractured love for her husband; she was tormented by the hardness that had taken root in her younger sister these last few months. And yet she capitulated, even now, paralysed by her inability to intervene.

  Not even that bloody March night, the night she only told me about much later, could bring her to her senses. The night she returned from Sopio’s apartment to Christine’s villa, holding Andro by the hand (his mother had asked her, once again, to take the boy with her), and heard cries coming from Christine’s bedroom.

  She told Andro to go up to the nursery, and hurried into the room where her sister and her absent brother-in-law slept. There she found her sister, enveloped in the scent of lavender from the dried flowers that stood on the chest of drawers to guarantee the couple a good, peaceful night’s sleep. She was lying on the starched white sheets of the four-poster bed, with the white mosquito net stretched above it, and beneath her was a lake of blood.

  Christine was groaning and crying out through gritted teeth, clinging to the bedstead. Stasia ran to her and said she would fetch the doctor, but at that Christine screeched so loudly, like a wounded animal, that Stasia froze and, eventually, obeyed.

  ‘No doctor, no doctor … No one must know … I’ve sent them all home. No one can —’

  ‘You could bleed to death! What have you done?’