The people’s flag is deepest red,
It shrouded oft our martyred dead,
And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold,
Their hearts’ blood dyed its every fold.
SOCIALIST SONG
The Frunze Higher Naval School offered four courses in different areas of naval training and sciences. Kostya was most interested in navigation.
For Kostya, who was top of his class, getting accepted by the academy — with additional help from some excellent references and Simon’s contacts — was child’s play. Over the past two years, he had worked on himself and his body with something bordering on obsession, swimming several hundred-metre lengths three times a week, lifting weights, and joining the athletics programme at the Youth Sports Palace.
Stasia, who had guessed his intentions, stopped bemoaning her failure and came to terms with the fact that Kostya wanted to be placed in the care of the father he idolised. She wrote letters to her husband, and even had long-distance telephone conversations with him from the post office, asking him to take good care of Kostya. She added that the boy was more sensitive than he looked; the lieutenant should not be deceived by his physical strength. Simon was proud of his son and promised to do everything in his power to see that his development continued just as splendidly.
There was little difficulty in arranging Kostya’s departure, and the farewells at Tbilisi’s Central Station also took place quickly and without tears.
‘Do try and learn how to have some fun!’ Kitty called after him as he was getting on the train, and he muttered that she should learn how to behave like a girl. Stasia kissed him on the forehead, pressed a bag stuffed full of treats into his hands, and turned her face away as the train began to move.
*
And just as Sopio’s death and the destruction of the flowers could not have been averted, the year 1937, which was to be the bloodiest and most rabid in Soviet history, brought with it an unavoidable catastrophe — like a storm, but without thunder; silent, but extreme.
It was inevitable that one mild October day, just a few weeks after Kostya’s departure, Ramas Iosebidze would return home earlier than planned. It was a glorious, golden evening. There were still melons to be had for dessert; it was still warm enough to sit outside. The children happened to be spending a week with Stasia’s family in their sleepy border town. Christine had gone to bed early with a headache, and Stasia was still sitting in the garden doing a crossword puzzle. The cook and the maid had already gone home.
‘Ramas?’
Surprised, Stasia went to meet her brother-in-law. He smiled. He seemed to be in a sentimental mood, for he embraced her, which he seldom did, and sat with her in the garden for a while. He had his briefcase with him; he told Stasia about the stresses and strains of his trip, and asked after the children.
For years, Stasia believed that the children’s absence must have been the final incentive Ramas needed to go through with his deed. But I think he had been planning it for months, and would have carried it out one way or another — perhaps not on that October evening, but there would certainly have been another opportunity. It would have been enough for the children simply to have been at school.
Ramas said he was tired and was looking forward to waking Christine and seeing her, and went up to their bedroom. Stasia went to bed as well.
Ramas lay down beside his wife and hugged her tightly.
‘What are you doing here, when did you arrive?’
‘Just now. I had to see you. I couldn’t stand it any longer.’
‘Did you leave without permission? Isn’t that against the rules? I don’t want you to get into trouble.’
‘I want you so much …’
He started to tug at Christine’s nightdress. Finally, Christine gave in; she felt guilty, of course she did, she felt miserable. But she took off her nightdress, because in the last few months she had learned that her nakedness rendered men more helpless than when she kept her clothes on.
He stretched out on his back and made her straddle him. They had never made love like that before. She looked at him, his face contorted with pain or pleasure — she couldn’t tell which, but she had to look at him because he was staring unwaveringly at her. He didn’t look at her pert white breasts, he didn’t admire her flawless body, he didn’t touch her most secret places; he stared into her eyes throughout.
She moved slowly at first, disconcerted and hesitant, surprised by her own desire. Willingly she took the hands he offered as support. She was confused by the fact she was starting to enjoy what she was doing. Her breath came more quickly; he saw little beads of sweat appear on her forehead, he smiled, he was entirely with her, as if what she was doing was not happening to his body. As if they were two different bodies, beings, not joined together, but isolated in their pleasure.
Christine wanted to cover her face, she wanted him to stop staring at her like that — she groaned, though she was usually so quiet when they made love. Until now, the worldliness of Tbilisi had been no match for her provincial Christian upbringing. He held her hands tightly, steadying her.
She wanted to stop, to lie down beside him and stroke his forehead, because what she was feeling made her heart hurt — painful little jolts — she felt something move inside her, she wanted to weep out loud, beg him for forgiveness, undo everything that had happened, she wanted to move out of the city, to the countryside, to make a new start — even without money, without power, she was prepared to take him as her husband.
This she understood as she began to sense something she would never have thought possible; as her moans grew louder and louder, as she forgot her inhibitions, her manners and the Bible. She understood that she would follow him, no matter where, this gentle man with the deep sadness in his eyes, as if he knew about everything — yes, he knows, she thought. And he started to laugh loudly, though there was no scorn in his voice — his laughter was understanding, indescribably beautiful, very gentle, very loving, as if he couldn’t believe his luck, and he whispered: ‘Yes, yes, you’re so very beautiful, yes, my sunshine, please, yes, please.’ She couldn’t entirely overcome her embarrassment; the way he was looking at her and talking to her made her uncomfortable, but the enjoyment was so great, it felt so good to let herself go.
This time, she was taking someone else’s body; she was not the one who had to give herself. As she had always thought you had to when you were someone’s wife, courtesan, mistress, yes, whore — yes, at that moment, those were her exact thoughts. Engulfed in this feeling, she wanted to scream everything out of herself — why had she never been able to feel it before, she wondered — and she closed her eyes. She was filled with an immense warmth; a gentle and very delicate feeling spread through her ribcage, something contracted, again that painful jolt, and her lips formed words she had never wanted to say before: ‘I love you.’
She was amazed: when he had said those words to her, she had always just said ‘Me too’, never thinking what they meant, those words everyone else was so desperate to hear. They had never been all that important to her. The jewels, the receptions, the admiration, the appreciation always seemed more important. That was what she wanted from him: this life, yes, this one exactly. Love just seemed to come to her, without her having to do anything for it; it was enough that she existed and delighted people with her presence, nothing more. He had never asked: ‘Do you love me?’ He had always seemed satisfied with her ‘Me too’, never demanding more from her.
She hated him. And she loved him. And this contradiction was tearing her chest apart — it had to be released in a yell. He heard the words and gave his tears free rein; there was no doubt now that these were tears, and he was crying. But she didn’t know why. She hoped they were tears of joy, but she couldn’t be sure. Her pelvis moved faster, he moved in time with her, offered up to her his sluggish body, which she now found so desirable. He was there only to giv
e her pleasure, to give her this sense of boundless freedom.
In her room, Stasia woke, sat up in bed, and listened. She heard her sister and her mouth fell open in the dark. Christine was making love to her husband, Christine was doing something other people did, Christine was becoming human, flesh and blood. Stasia couldn’t believe her ears. It made her giggle, and she resolved to tease her sister about it at the next opportunity. She sounded excited; it seemed to be doing her good. These were sounds of joy, and it had been a long time since anything so beautiful had been heard in this house.
*
And then came the scream, so loud its reverberations seemed to wander down all the hallways of the house and creep into all the corners and alcoves. The scream was like a birth cry, it was like an anthem, a celebration of desire and intimacy, it rose up like the start of an aria, a pure, ringing voice.
Stasia shook her head and sat up once more. What the devil are they doing in there? she wondered, and suppressed a grin. Christine screamed and her husband laughed, laughed with happiness and gratitude. She had closed her eyes and was writhing like a snake at the sound of a charmer’s flute in the bazaar. Something exploded inside her, and tiny stars danced before her eyes.
She didn’t see her husband’s hand reach for a little bottle beside the bed.
‘I’m doing it for us. Only for us. For you and me. Because there’s no other escape for us,’ he said, gripping her by the wrist.
Still dazed, Christine opened her eyes. She noticed the small, elegant bottle, which looked like a perfume bottle, and smiled.
‘What’s that, my darling?’ she asked, stretching her back.
‘I’m sorry I let you down. No one has ever given me as much joy as you have. It’s not your fault.’
Christine, now a little more alert, and frightened by her husband’s calm tone, tried to free herself; it was only then that she realised how firm his grip was, how steely.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, and fear crept into her voice.
‘Otherwise it will never stop. As soon as you say no, you’ll pay for it with your life. There’s no other way.’
A shudder ran down her spine; she stared uncomprehendingly at the bottle. But there was no doubt now: he knew everything. She prepared to defend herself, struggling against the remnants of desire in her body; she drew herself upright. She felt nothing but immense gratitude, humility, and something like affection.
‘Ramas, what’s wrong?’ she stammered.
At that moment he threw the contents of the bottle in her face. It was just a few drops, and at first she thought it was water, but then the hellish burning started. She could smell its stench, not realising that it was she who was burning, until the pain spread across the left half of her face and paralysed all other sensations, making her mind reel, her body cramp. Christine screamed, even more loudly — so loudly it made all the glass in the house ring. This time, the scream was inhuman. Ramas, who had spilled a few drops of the acid solution on his hand, gave a similarly bestial cry. Trying not to look at his wife, he leapt up, grabbed his trousers, and strode out.
Stasia rushed out of her room and, to her astonishment, saw that the door of her sister’s bedroom had been flung open. In the dark, all she could see was her sister lying on the bed, naked as God had made her, thrashing about as though she had lost her mind. She thought it must have something to do with Ramas: he must have done something terrible to himself in his despair; she thought the blood was his. But then Christine turned towards her and Stasia saw that the left half of her face was a single blood-drenched wound that smelled of burnt flesh.
*
The next morning, Ramas Iosebidze’s body, wearing only shoes and trousers, was found in the Kojori woods. He had shot himself in the head with a Walther PPK. The gun had been a birthday present from his friend, mentor, and commander.
By some miracle, Christine’s eye was spared; but the left half of her face was disfigured beyond recognition.
The hot chocolate was the only thing that could bring a hint of a smile to Christine’s lips. Over the long weeks of bed rest and closed curtains, of hiding her face, of pain and half-suppressed screams, it was the only thing that brought any kind of relief.
Book III
Kostya
We thank our leader for our happy childhood!
POSTER SLOGAN
Kostya came to Leningrad (previously Petrograd, the former St. Petersburg) to train as a sailor at the Frunze Higher Naval School.
It was in an old building on beautiful Vasilievsky Island, right on the Neva. The training centre had recently been awarded the Order of the Red Banner on account of its discipline and exemplary character. Kostya had come to what was possibly the most European city in the East, built, in the competition for western appreciation, by forced labourers and prisoners, who all too frequently paid for this beauty with their lives (the gilding of the twenty-six-metre-high dome of St. Isaac’s Cathedral alone resulted in eighty dead). The white city. With its proud Neva, the islands and bridges, and the beautiful black cats and undaunted ravens that — majestic, complacent — permitted anyone to feed them. The dark, interconnected interior courtyards; the secret passages. A city with the raffinesse of a French bride and the grandezza of an Italian widow.
But Leningrad was, above all, the epicentre of communist ideology. This was where the Aurora had fired the first shot and the imperial palace had been stormed; this was where Lenin had arrived, as if by a miracle, at the Finland Station, to save the country. This was where the Party bigwigs had started out. This was where a new calendar had begun!
Already, as his train pulled in to Moscow Station, Kostya’s breast was filled with pride and awe. For him, it was an honour to be here, at the heart of Communism, following in his father’s footsteps.
He thought it very laudable that his father lived in such a modest abode, a tiny apartment on Petrogradsky Island, in a classical, nineteenth-century house that had been converted into kommunalkas and allocated to soldiers and their families. None of the splendour and luxury he was familiar with from his aunt’s house; no superfluous items, no wasted labour.
He could have burst with pride when his father took him out and showed him the city, even allowing him a glass of vodka with some of his colleagues. Kostya was sure he would soon give his father plenty of reasons to be proud of him. He would demonstrate to him how upright he was, how hardworking, how disciplined, and how faithfully he served his country.
And then his happiness on seeing all the ships. At last, he had escaped the fetid, oriental seclusion of the Caucasus and was here at the heart of world affairs. Even his tiny room at the boarding house filled him with childish delight. The plain wooden bed, the old woollen blanket, the little table, the musty wardrobe — this was all he would need in the coming years. And he would make friends, kindred spirits who shared his passion for the Navy.
*
His first minor disappointment came on the very first day of training, when he discovered that his roommate was by no means a genteel Leningrad native, but a small, slight, rather unprepossessing Georgian with thin hair and overly narrow shoulders. He spoke with a southern Georgian accent, which softened all his words and which Kostya thought sounded smarmy. Giorgi Alania, as the boy was called, seemed insecure and overawed, and didn’t correspond in the slightest to Kostya’s image of the ideal roommate.
Kostya complained to his father, asking him whether it was customary in Russia to allocate roommates according to nationality. His father laughed and said no, it was just a coincidence: he should be pleased that he still had an opportunity to speak his mother tongue. However, what with the strict drill at the traditional academy, the onset of the northern winter, and Kostya’s pathological desire to be the best and to prove it to the world, he quickly forgot this initial disappointment.
He rose at six in the morning, did callisthenic exercises i
n his room, had breakfast in the canteen, attended his courses, then went to the academy library and read up on engineering so that he could show off his knowledge in class and gain favour with the teachers. He was eagerly looking forward to the first training exercises in the Gulf of Finland because he was a practical sort of man and knew he would come out of them looking good.
Soon, most people were calling him ‘Krasavchik’ — ‘Mr Handsome’ — and even the older students started seeking his company. He was said to be a ‘real man’, as good at drinking as he was at studying.
Yet the harder Kostya tried to win his father’s affection, the busier and more dismissive the latter seemed. Simon Jashi’s slack posture, constant tiredness, pallid skin, and his restless, wandering eyes spurred Kostya on to ever greater boldness, daring, and accomplishments. For so many years, he had preserved the statue of his heroic father in his imagination; he wasn’t prepared to drag it down from its pedestal so soon. The more assignments he was given, the more energetic he became. The more strenuous the training manoeuvres and sporting activities, the more enthusiastic he was. He never complained about the teachers’ severity, never longed for the weekend or the holidays. And at the same time, he never missed any of the gatherings in the various rooms of the boarding house or the kommunalkas. He drank, he sang, he was always the first to raise his glass. This soon earned him a reputation for indestructibility, and the respect of his fellow students.
Giorgi Alania was the exact opposite. A loner, he was always buried in his books. His comrades didn’t invite him to the gatherings; they never saw him drink or swear, never heard him make lewd jokes. He clearly struggled to meet the Academy’s high standards in the physical disciplines, but in the theoretical subjects — mathematics above all — his performance was remarkable. Soon, people were casting envious glances in his direction and calling him a swot behind his back.
The Eighth Life Page 18