The Eighth Life

by Nino Haratischwili

  *

  With Kostya’s return late that autumn, happiness came back to Christine’s house. Mariam, who had tended to avoid Kitty these past few months, also appeared unannounced every evening. The whole family gathered in the kitchen or the garden for extended dinners, although Kitty never stayed at the table any longer than necessary. This relaxed mood didn’t last long, though. After the time he had spent in Moscow, Kostya’s hometown seemed to him too small, too constrained, too provincial. And when his mother and Christine spoke to him late one evening and confessed that Andro had come back, he openly expressed his displeasure and incomprehension at their support for a man who had betrayed his country. He grew bad-tempered, accused his mother and aunt of trampling Soviet values underfoot and abandoning all sense of morality and responsibility. Christine denied it, but of course Kostya knew that Andro’s unexpected release would never have been possible without intervention from above. He shouted at the two women and forbade them ever to let that traitor into the house.

  His bad mood didn’t lift, and soon not even Mariam was spared. Kostya kept leaving her at home on her own. He no longer took her out, no longer went with her to the cinema, was uncouth and hurtful, responded to her excessive care and kind, affectionate nature with irritation. He virtually fled the house, stayed away for nights on end, looked up old school friends, made fleeting acquaintances, went to parties, sought diversion. As if he were trying to wring a new taste from life, to reinvent himself, but was constantly being thwarted by what had gone before.

  He needed the body of one particular woman; he needed to lose control at night in order to stay in control during the day.

  He needed to see admiration in a woman’s eyes; he needed game playing, flirtation. Not this orderliness. The security, the clear prospects Mariam offered weren’t enough for him. He was too sure of her, and it began to bore him. Security was not enough of a challenge. At the same time, he was aware that if he broke off the engagement, Mariam would never recover from the shame; for her, it would be the end of the world. Her honour would be violated, her faith shattered.

  Kostya was about to head out on another of his nocturnal excursions when Kitty, all dressed up and perfumed, planted herself in his way.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Kostya irritably. He had changed out of his uniform and was wearing an elegant suit.

  ‘I’m coming with you. I feel like going out. We haven’t done that for ages.’

  ‘I thought you had to work on your successful musical career?’

  ‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that outrageous remark. I’m going to carry on being nice. I’m going to link arms with you now, and I expect you to take me out.’

  ‘Alright, but behave yourself and please keep your judgements to yourself. It’s a high-class place we’re going to; I don’t want you embarrassing me there.’

  Kitty, surprised that he had agreed so readily to her request, nodded obligingly. She was also surprised that her brother would be in high-class company on his dissolute nocturnal outings. She had assumed that he went to one of the bars by the river, ate smoked fish, drank beer and schnapps, and then disappeared into a guesthouse in Avlabari with some buxom lady, between the Tatar tea houses and the Armenian laundries.

  Kostya hailed a taxi and they drove up the Mtatsminda, the ‘Holy Mountain’, along cobbled streets that led ever more steeply upwards, before finally turning into a cul-de-sac at the end of which a large new house was proudly enthroned on a little hill. There were cars parked in front of the high black gates; loud music emanated from the house, along with a hubbub of voices from the large crowd drinking and talking inside. The people who lived here clearly had money, which meant they were either of significance in the Party or the children of people who were. Kitty could already sense her reluctance as she crossed the threshold, and even considered turning round; she had seen enough, she knew Kostya wasn’t slipping into debauchery on his nights out, as they had all feared. But just then a small, rather plump, young man appeared and walked towards them, laughing.

  He introduced Kitty to the assembled company, who greeted her effusively. She learned that the owner of the house, the plump boy’s father, was the director of the silk factory and currently on holiday in Karlovy Vary. The son and his sister were looking after the house, which was full of would-be sophisticates and the nouveau riche, spoiled daddy’s boys and girls whom Kostya, by his own standards, ought really to despise. Instead, he seemed to find them entertaining; he was playing the wit, the charmer, the dancer, the intellectual, and above all the ladies’ man. Kitty found herself surrounded by women with elaborate hairstyles and interesting skirts, all of whom found it incredibly exciting that she of all people, Kitty Jashi, whom they knew from the radio, was the sister of the best-looking bachelor in the city. Now Kitty understood what was going on. Of course he had had to distance himself from Mariam in these circles, to deny her existence, so that he could play this game. The short, dark-haired girl who laughed loudest, waving her hands with their scarlet fingernails in the air, was the host’s sister; she seemed exceedingly interested in Kostya.

  Kitty found herself monopolised by some self-satisfied boys whom she found intensely irritating. They all wanted to know who the lucky man was who’d inspired her to write that fantastic song and whether she was still having an affair with him. The very word ‘affair’ made Kitty feel so out of place that she would have liked to have run straight back home again. She thought of Mariam and what she would have to say about all this; what then could she still find to love about Kostya?

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you something.’ Visibly intoxicated by the heavy red wine, Kostya smiled his captivating smile, dragged her away from the crowd, and led her out onto the terrace. From here they had a superb view of the glimmering city and the lush green hills with the lizard-coloured river winding among them. Sunk in the night, the city looked content. Seen from up here, everything shone so beautifully; and Kostya was such a natural part of this shining, standing here beside her, so broad-shouldered and proud, looking up at the sky, breathing in the fresh air.

  ‘Why are we here, Kostya?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to get drunk with me tonight.’

  ‘I mean, what are you doing here? With these people?’

  Before he could answer, another group of clucking girls appeared, with the hostess at their head, and gathered around Kostya and his sister.

  ‘Please, please, sing the song! We’ve brought you a guitar specially; please, please sing “A Perfect, Perfect World”,’ they beseeched Kitty, champagne glasses in their hands.

  Kitty stared at their faces and saw Andro before her, his little room, his slumped posture, his sunken cheeks and bald head. She thought of how much she missed his golden curls that would never grow back as luxuriantly as before. ‘What a perfect, perfect couple, in a perfect, perfect world, look at us, wouldn’t you say we’re perfect?’ And they all sang along; they all sang the same words, they all raised their voices when they got to the ‘perfect world’, and they all lowered their voices when she breathed, ‘… so how can it be, that, without you and me, the world is still so perfect?’

  With her audience applauding rapturously, Kitty knocked back two glasses of champagne in quick succession, excused herself, and looked around for her brother, but he was no longer with the group outside on the terrace. She hurried back into the house; she wanted to let him know that she had to leave, that she couldn’t stand these people any longer. But Kostya was nowhere to be found. She crossed the big room with the dancing couples, ran up and down the brightly lit corridors, peeped into various rooms, asked after him again and again, but no one had seen him; no one knew where he was.

  At last she gave up: she feared that he must have retired with the hostess to some quiet corner where no one would find them, and she ran to the door without taking her leave.

  Outside, she breathed a sigh of relief. The
cul-de-sac was dark; the only light came from inside the house. She sat down on a ledge a few metres from the front door. Suddenly, she heard a noise. At first, she paid it no attention, but then she recognised her brother’s voice, low and persuasive. Hadn’t they managed to find a secluded part of the house in which to indulge their flirtation? Kitty felt uncomfortable about spying on her brother, but curiosity prevailed, and she followed his voice down the left-hand side of the house. She saw two shadows beneath a balcony, and recognised Kostya; he was propping himself against the wall with one hand and leaning over someone, dangerously close to this woman’s face, as if they had just kissed, or were about to. He was speaking to her insistently. But it wasn’t the little dark-haired girl, the hostess; this woman was tall and blonde.

  Kitty squinted and craned her neck as far as it would go. Which of the squeaking, childishly over-made-up women was it? One of the ones who had been standing upstairs listening to her sing? The woman was pressing her breasts up against Kostya and looking attentively into his eyes. Then she ran a hand carefully down his cheek, and he glanced around warily; it seemed he didn’t want to be seen with her. Once Kitty’s eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, she focused on the woman’s profile. She was tall and elegant; her hair was pinned up and elaborately styled, and she wore a tight beige skirt that emphasised her waist, with a flattering slit up the side exposing a long, muscular leg. Above all, though, she was older; older than Kostya, and older than all the other guests in the house.

  ‘I want it, too … Of course, how can you doubt that?’ Kostya was whispering things Kitty could hardly hear, and the woman pulled him close and pressed her nose against his. Soon she would touch his lips, thought Kitty; Kostya’s body grew tense, he leaned in towards her, but she didn’t let him, she didn’t kiss him.

  Then Kitty heard the blonde woman say, loud and clear, ‘You know I hate it when people keep me waiting, Kostya’ — and suddenly she was overcome by dizziness. She felt her legs turn to jelly and, leaning against the wall of the house, she slid to the ground.

  The voice. She knew that voice! She would never forget that voice. She would never fail to recognise that soft, cajoling tone.

  It was her. The woman from Hell.

  Kitty got to her feet again, clinging to the wall of the house, and walked backwards until the two of them disappeared from view and she was at the front of the house again. From there she ran back inside, locked herself in the nearest bathroom, ran some water, and held her head under the tap until she was able to control her breathing. But her body refused to obey her: her knees were shaking, and she could hardly stand. She forced herself down onto the cold, tiled floor and counted to one hundred until she felt able to get up again.

  Then she went back to the main salon, grabbed a glass of wine, and knocked it back in one draught. By the time Kostya reappeared, she was standing alone on the terrace and had downed about three more glasses.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ said Kostya. ‘Where the hell have you been hiding? You look sort of … Have you drunk too much?’ He was cheerful; his voice was bright. ‘I heard you sing. You seem to go down really well, with your funny song — really, I’m impressed.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Sorry, who do you mean?’

  ‘Who is that woman?’

  ‘Have you been spying on me?’

  ‘Who?’ She turned and looked at him. Her face was contorted; the expression in her eyes was somewhere between revulsion and physical pain. Kostya’s relaxed manner instantly switched to aggression.

  ‘That? It’s nothing serious. You needn’t be concerned on Mariam’s account.’

  ‘Does she know you’re getting married? Does she know her name? Does she know your real name? How well do you know her?’

  As Kitty uttered these questions, she suddenly realised the full, irreversible, dark implications of the ancient sport the gods were playing with them.

  ‘Is this an interrogation? I’m a big boy, Kitty; pull yourself together. I don’t need a chaperone. Are you, of all people, going to talk to me about morals?’

  ‘I don’t give a shit where you choose to put your dick. I just want to know her name.’

  ‘Don’t you dare —’

  Kitty was sure the blonde woman would not set foot inside the house. She had vanished into the night just as she had appeared, without a trace. Where had she come from? Where had he met her? Did he only come to this house in order to meet with her in secret? It made no sense. Kitty’s head ached. She narrowed her eyes, frowning ferociously.

  ‘Tell me who she is and I’ll leave you alone!’

  The volume at which she made her demand surprised even Kitty herself. She seized her brother by the shoulders and began shaking him as hard as she could. Kostya was startled by the violence of her reaction; he staggered back, but didn’t defend himself.

  ‘Kitty, Kitty, please, calm down — come on, I’ll drive you home, it’s all right, calm down. I promise you I won’t hurt Mariam; what you saw is something else, come on now.’

  ‘Who —?’ she screamed.

  A few guests had started to come out onto the terrace, and Kostya was clearly finding the scene uncomfortable. He seized her wrists and dragged her into the house, and when she grabbed hold of the banisters and refused to go any further he picked her up, threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and carried her downstairs. He only put her down again on the wide road once they had left the Holy Mountain behind them. She slumped onto the pavement and started to weep.

  She wept almost soundlessly, but it was a terrible weeping; a weeping like Christine’s, the silent weeping of the women of the chocolate house. Kostya stood beside his sister in bewilderment, looking down at her, incapable of comforting her and incapable of leaving her alone. Eventually he sat beside her and tried to put his arm around her, but she pushed him away.

  ‘I expect some sort of explanation from you, right now!’ he said, loudly, once she had calmed down a little and wiped away the tears with her sleeve.

  ‘I just want her name. I don’t want anything else from you. I won’t say anything to Mariam, I just want the name.’

  ‘But why, what for?’

  ‘I know her.’

  ‘Where do you know her from?’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She’s just a beautiful woman I met at a banquet, and she’s married, which is why it wouldn’t be very advisable —’

  ‘Just a beautiful woman … just a beautiful woman.’ Kitty repeated her brother’s words in disbelief.

  Just a beautiful woman, you say. It didn’t hurt, didn’t hurt, because she was a beautiful woman. Such beautiful lips, I thought, as she sang me the song of death. Just a beautiful woman. But look at me, look at me — I’m a woman too, not beautiful like her, dead and risen again, but a woman, like her.

  I doubt, Brilka, that the people who were to sing this song in the years to come, and still sing it, know that it’s not a song about jealousy.

  *

  He didn’t relent. He didn’t reveal her name. Kitty wasn’t sure who exactly he was trying to protect, but she knew that she would not yield, that she would do everything in her power to find out the blonde woman’s name.

  She tried using tenderness, deploying her acting talents to play the concerned and loving sister; she intimated that if he didn’t relent she would tell Mariam. But apparently there was much more at stake for him than just Mariam. She made his life difficult, persecuted him, gave him no peace. He was losing patience; eventually he would give in. He couldn’t stand this persecution, this curtailment of his freedom for long, thought Kitty. And she would dog his heels, would allow him no rest. She was tough, tougher than he could ever have dreamed.

  At the end of the month, when the rain had been beating down on the roofs non-stop for days, stretching the nerves of everyone in the house to breaking point, Kit
ty made yet another nasty comment about Kostya’s nocturnal escapades, and he lost patience. He grabbed at her dress, dragged her into the mud-soaked garden, and flung her to the ground. The rain kept sluicing down. Within seconds, brother and sister were soaked to the skin.

  ‘Stop it — stop it! Do you hear me?’ he bellowed through the rain.

  Full of hatred, he glared at his sister, who leaped back onto her feet and started circling him like a wildcat.

  ‘Tell me her name!’

  ‘You’re completely mad, insane, you should be locked up, you should be ashamed of yourself!’

  ‘Tell me her name and I’ll leave you in peace!’

  ‘She’s done nothing to you — leave her alone. I just had an affair with her, my God! Just a little affair. Her husband is very powerful. And if anything goes wrong, if you do something foolish, you’ll be in trouble and I don’t want to carry the can for you yet again — just let things lie!’

  ‘Fuck her senseless if you want — you think I’m interested in that? I just want her name!’

  ‘You’re talking like a cheap whore! Father would turn in his grave.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a grave! He doesn’t even have a grave!’

  At that Kostya caught hold of his sister again and hit her hard in the face. She fell, and rolled in the mud; when she raised her head, blood was running down her chin. Her bottom lip had split. She didn’t cry; she didn’t even touch the wound, as if she were immune to the pain.