Alania’s fellow students only approached him when they needed his assistance with their exams. He was happy to help, and did so without protest, but it never occurred to anyone to invite him to the weekly drinking sessions in return. Kostya, too, steadfastly ignored him at first. Their conversation never went further than an exchange of banalities. Sometimes they lent each other books or read Pravda together, but that was all. The only classes they both attended were the mandatory ones; Alania had decided early on to study shipbuilding, and that suited Kostya just fine.
On this particular evening, though, when Kostya put down the book he was reading, he observed Alania more closely; he was finding it hard to concentrate, and was looking for some distraction. Alania was in the middle of peeling a cucumber, so meticulously that Kostya was impressed. As if the cucumber were a bomb that required defusing.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Kostya, curious. He generally addressed Alania in Russian.
‘My mother sent me a parcel with all kinds of treats in it. I bought cucumbers too, to complete the meal. And you’re most welcome to share it with me, if you like,’ he answered in his soft Georgian.
Indeed, Kostya’s mouth began to water when he saw Alania laying the little table. A constant diet of black bread, groats, and fat-free borscht was too meagre for his stomach, and although he might not have wanted to admit it, he missed the sumptuous meals he had enjoyed at home.
Alania prepared the food with great care and attention: he sliced the bread, put the spicy adjika in little bowls — God knows where he’d found them — cut the smoked cheese into thin slices, patiently stirred the cucumber salad in the bowl, arranged pickled garlic on a plate, and uncorked a bottle of Saperavi.
At the sight of this lavish meal, Kostya’s reserve evaporated. Quickly recalling Georgian dining tradition, he proposed a hearty toast to the dinner. The wine loosened their tongues, and Alania told him about his childhood in a small village, Machara, on the Black Sea. He was an only child, which was most unusual in that region. He spoke very highly and with the greatest respect of his mother, a teacher in the local village school. He did not, however, mention a father.
Kostya wondered how, as an ordinary village boy, Alania had managed to get into the Frunze Academy in Leningrad. He soon decided that Alania must be one of the token students from the kolkhoz that almost all the educational institutions were required to take. Alania’s knowledge of natural sciences and mathematics was very impressive, so it wasn’t hard to imagine that a headmaster or a kolkhoz representative had recommended him. By the early hours of the morning, they were already singing the Georgian song ‘Suliko’ together and slapping each other on the back.
Kostya became Giorgi Alania’s only friend, and, although he couldn’t have known it at the time, Alania was to become Kostya’s best friend, and the most loyal.
Because, Brilka, the friendship sealed that evening traces what is perhaps the most interesting and improbable pattern in our carpet. By the end you’ll agree with me that, without Alania, parts of our story would never have come together; that, without him, I might not be able to tell this story this way.
*
In 1922, before Alania came into this world, the first official constitution of Soviet Georgia was accepted. That year saw the start of the agricultural reforms, collectivisation, and kolkhozation. But it seemed that none of this could prevent a schoolgirl of barely seventeen from graduating from her village school with a gold medal and looking forward to her future. In her case, this future showed tantalising promise: as the best student in her class, she had a good chance of gaining a university place — and that was a very big deal for a girl from one of the remotest villages on the Black Sea coast.
Her family were less than delighted by this prospect. A girl was supposed to get married — she was quite good-looking, there would have been a number of interested parties — and for that, in this rural region, a woman didn’t need to be able to do more than read and write and add a few roubles together. And be good to her husband and not work-shy, because there was work aplenty in the tea plantations round about.
But Gulo, their ‘little sweetheart’, wanted nothing to do with all that. She explained to her parents, who had had only three and five years of schooling respectively, that the tea plantations were not for her; she was interested in higher mathematics, and there were far more exciting challenges in the world than mucking out cowsheds or picking tea. Besides, she had two older sisters, both of whom had been married for some time and shared the responsibility for the farm and the next generation; and there was her brother, who would inherit everything anyway and was already following in her father’s footsteps. So they needn’t have any concerns about releasing her from the clutches of the family.
Her mother complained about her ungrateful child; her father painted grisly pictures for her of what he believed went on in the cities: murder, rape, exploitation. But Gulo, or Guliko, as she was usually called, just kept shaking her head and repeating over and over again that she would take her father’s hunting rifle and put a bullet through her brain that instant rather than marry some village idiot and die a lingering death out here in the back of beyond.
It was only when Gulo’s teachers, convinced of her academic promise, went so far as to pay her father a visit to urge him to allow Gulo to go to university that her parents finally admitted defeat.
The very next month, Gulo became the first woman in the history of the university to be offered a place at the Faculty of Mathematics in Kutaisi. If she successfully completed the four years in Kutaisi, she could then, with top marks and a diploma, apply to the Institute of Astrophysics in Moscow. Astrophysics was her ultimate goal: she dreamed of a career in research. She had no doubts — nothing else stood in the way of her dreams, and she would give everything she had to achieve her aim; of this she was firmly convinced.
The only thing that, to everyone’s astonishment, Gulo considered a disadvantage was her outward appearance. Her unusually pretty face, her flawless skin, her large eyes the colour of an autumn lake, her marvellous head of hair, and her strong, tall, curvaceous figure didn’t really seem appropriate for a girl with a passionate interest in physics and mathematics.
And indeed, had her striking appearance not got in the way, her life after that summer would have been a very different one. Perhaps it really would have gone according to her plan.
A month after the final school examinations, Gulo’s class teacher invited her on a trip. As the top graduate in her year, she had the honour of spending a week in the oil town of Baku, along with other girls from the region who had similarly distinguished themselves. The trip was financed by the Transcaucasian Federation and was intended to promote understanding between the peoples of the Caucasus.
For Gulo, who had only ever left her village once, on a school trip to Sokhumi, it was a very welcome opportunity. Baku was an expanding metropolis; the financial aristocracy, the Rothschilds and the Nobels, had changed the face of the city, and Gulo was happy to have the chance to absorb some of its big-city atmosphere before beginning her studies. She wanted to be able to hold her own with her future fellow students; she didn’t want to look like a country girl.
The first few days were marvellous. Gulo was impressed by Baku — the colourful oriental markets and the friendliness of the people — and it didn’t even seem to bother her when men ogled her on the street. She enjoyed the strong tea, the honey-drenched baklava, and the bustle of city life with its trams and horse-drawn carriages.
She felt like an adult: it was her first taste of the sort of freedom that awaited her in Kutaisi, and it filled her with euphoric happiness.
The girls stayed in a communist youth hostel, where they all shared one big dormitory. It was hot and dusty, and the nights were long. Full of new impressions, they chatted in whispers throughout the night, talking about their new lives that would begin at the end of the summer.
The teacher went on clapping enthusiastically long after the obligatory applause had subsided, then dashed over to one of the men as he was heading for the exit, practically dragging Gulo along behind her. The man with the glasses was Georgian, the teacher explained, and he must be important if he was permitted to give a speech here. They had to seize the opportunity and make his acquaintance.
The teacher introduced herself and her group of girls, and enthused about what the man had said and the suggestions he had made. He listened to her patiently, nodding thoughtfully a few times, and as he was about to shake her hand and excuse himself his eyes fell on Gulo, who was standing mutely at her side. Suddenly, he switched from Russian to Georgian and asked which village they had come from. The teacher, delighted by his unexpected interest, started gushing like a waterfall. They were from a small village, not worth mentioning, she said, Machara; their trip was to promote understanding between peoples, and she and the girls were extremely pleased to have had the honour of hearing his lecture.
He himself came from Merkheuli, a nearby village — what a funny coincidence! — the man cried, and added that this absolutely must be celebrated. The ladies had undertaken such a long journey and should therefore be entertained appropriately, to seal this friendship between peoples. There were a few restaurants here, he said, that served excellent lamb cooked in all manner of ways, and delicious desserts — the girls liked sweet things, didn’t they? All girls like sweet things!
Barely able to contain her enthusiasm, the teacher summoned the girls, and after the little man had consulted his colleagues, they made their way to the exit, accompanied by two Red Army soldiers. The group was split up into three carriages and driven to a restaurant on the promenade, overlooking the sea.
The girls were overwhelmed to find themselves the object of so much male attention. They didn’t know how they were supposed to behave, and kept glancing across at their teacher, whose rapture now knew no bounds; she seemed just as overwhelmed as her wards.
Sweet wine was brought to the table, and although for a while the teacher protested and forbade the girls to taste it, their glasses were eventually all filled to the brim. A brass band was soon summoned and the mood grew increasingly jolly and relaxed. Bit by bit, the girls lost their inhibitions, and soon some of them were dancing with the inebriated Red Army soldiers.
Gulo remained sceptical. The leader of the group was paying her far too much attention. He had sat down beside her and kept pouring her more wine; he entertained her with anecdotes and paid her compliments. The teacher didn’t see the man put his arm around Gulo and brush his knee against hers.
It got late, and although the teacher kept saying that they had to leave, the bespectacled man ignored her protests and ordered more bottles of wine. One of the girls threw up in the toilet. Another fell asleep with her head on the table.
Eventually the carriages were brought round and they split into three groups again. The gentlemen insisted on driving the ladies back to the youth hostel. Gulo had no choice. Relieved, she climbed into one of the carriages in the hope that the evening was now over, but the man got in and sat down beside her. One of the girls didn’t have a seat, and Gulo called out to her: on no account did she want to be alone with this man. Nelly, as the other girl was called, was of a cheerful disposition; she had been dancing a lot and laughing very loudly. Gulo knew her from the village; she was the daughter of the village commissar, and always wore strikingly beautiful clothes that emphasised her generous bosom.
Nelly wasn’t nearly as stupid as Gulo had originally thought, but that evening she had clearly drunk much more wine than was good for her, and had to be lifted into the carriage by one of the Red Army soldiers as she could hardly stand. The soldier went to sit up front with the coachman and they set off.
Initially, they drove along behind the other carriages, and after a few minutes Gulo’s unease lessened. Soon they would be at the youth hostel; soon it would be over. But when their carriage suddenly turned right while the other two carried straight on, Gulo felt herself starting to panic.
The bespectacled man assured her that there was no need to worry, they were just making a small detour, he had something to attend to en route. Nelly laughed stupidly again and laid her heavy head on Gulo’s shoulder.
Eventually the carriage stopped in a dark alleyway and the girls were asked to get out. Gulo could hear her heart hammering. Nelly began to whimper; Gulo took her by the hand, trying not to betray her fear. They were invited into an interior courtyard. The man was talking at her non-stop: everything was absolutely fine, no need to be afraid, they were just taking a little break, and Nelly could go to the bathroom and freshen up.
Gulo helped Nelly up the spiral staircase to a wooden gallery. From there, they passed into a small apartment with low ceilings and lots of tapestries. As if by magic, the Red Army soldier produced a basket of fruit, and the bespectacled man offered Gulo lemonade, which she politely declined. The apartment was dark; the men had lit two candles, but the silence all around only served to heighten Gulo’s fear. The gentlemen laughed and tried to revive the jolly atmosphere from the restaurant, telling jokes and paying the two girls more compliments.
Gulo excused herself, took Nelly’s arm, and dragged her into the little bathroom, which had a bidet and a washbowl. Nelly didn’t really understand where she was, and was slurring incoherently. Gulo took some water from the bowl and threw it in Nelly’s face. Nelly screamed and pushed her away with both hands, but Gulo grabbed her wrists, brought her face up close to Nelly’s, and compelled her to look her in the eyes.
‘Listen to me. We’ve got to get out of here. You have to wash your face and try to sober up. Do you hear me? We’ve got to get out of here. The door’s right here, at the end of the corridor, and it’s not locked. There’s only a chain. You just have to pull yourself together and be absolutely quiet. Do you understand?’
‘I feel sick!’
Gulo threw more water in her face. Nelly stopped resisting.
‘Do you understand?’ Gulo repeated. This time Nelly nodded hard and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her dress.
A few steps and they would be outside. Gulo held her breath. She pushed the chain aside and opened the door, slowly, carefully, as soundlessly as possible. She turned to Nelly and placed her forefinger on her lips, then let her go on ahead.
And that was when it happened. Nelly stumbled and fell, crashing flat onto the floor. For a split second Gulo considered stepping over Nelly and running down the spiral staircase; not looking back, running out, away from these men, away from their mocking laughter. But she couldn’t do it. She saw the girl lying on the floor, pathetic, feeble, drunk, stupefied. And although she didn’t know exactly what staying would mean, she did know that if she ran away she still would not escape. And she stopped, and closed the door, even as she heard the men coming down the corridor.
He bore down hard on her on the old sofa, which kept sagging more and more beneath the weight of their bodies. She focused on the whimpering coming from Nelly in the corridor. She heard the panting above her, and the same words, over and over again: ‘You’re so beautiful — so beautiful!’
With one hand gripping the arm of the sofa, she struggled not to turn her head so she wouldn’t have to look at him. She closed her eyes and tried to erase the image from her mind: the image of Nelly in th
e corridor, lying on the floor like a lifeless doll, legs spread, and the Red Army soldier kneeling in front of her, pulling her thighs towards him with increasing force, lifting her pelvis, driving himself into her.
She tried to think about Kutaisi, about the day she would pack her bags; she tried to think about her home, the farm, her sisters, the school; she even tried to think about the cattle, the cows and the pigs, the oilrigs off Baku, the green countryside she had seen from the train; she tried not to think about the pain in her abdomen, not to breathe in the smell of the bespectacled man above her, not to scream out her despair and disgust; she wanted not to hear Nelly’s terrible whimpering and her heartbreaking cries for help.
When the two of them were dropped off outside the youth hostel at dawn, nothing was the same as before. Yet their bodies betrayed nothing of what had happened to them. No traces of blood, no ripped clothes, no bruises.
When they got into bed, everyone was still asleep.
Why hadn’t they looked for them? Why hadn’t they fetched help? Why?
At breakfast, the teacher gave a speech about the importance of yesterday’s meeting. No one asked what time the two girls had been brought back to the hostel. The teacher avoided Gulo’s and Nelly’s eyes, patted them absent-mindedly on the cheek, and didn’t even question them when they both said they were sick and asked to stay at the hostel and be excused from the day’s events.
‘Had a few too many last night, did you?’ one of the girls joked half-heartedly as the rest of the group headed off and Nelly and Gulo remained behind in the canteen.
Afterwards, they returned to the dormitory and lay down on their beds.
‘We should go to the militsiya,’ said Gulo, after staring interminably at the ceiling and listening to the regular breathing of her companion in misfortune.
Nelly just laughed. Her laugh had a scornful edge and made Gulo feel even more wretched and helpless than she did already.
The Eighth Life Page 19