The Eighth Life

by Nino Haratischwili

  Yet even inmates of the camps — whose lives the dead man had destroyed, who had been robbed of their futures, declared slaves, subhuman, whose families he had annihilated — hit their heads on bars and barbed wire in utter despair when they heard of the Leader’s death.

  *

  Somewhere between Camden High Street and Arlington Road, Kitty laughed out loud. A little earlier, she had spoken to her nameless friend on the phone and discussed with him Amy’s plans for her future.

  ‘If there’s any interest from the public you’re welcome to tell the press whatever you like, but not, under any circumstances, anything about how you came to this country, or which city you were in beforehand. That goes without saying,’ the nameless man had calmly replied.

  ‘I won’t,’ Kitty promised. ‘I don’t want to make any trouble for you, which is why I wanted to make sure … You’ve done so much for me.’

  ‘You won’t be able to put me in danger. Just look out for yourself. And if anyone from your homeland tries to contact you —’

  ‘I won’t respond; yes, yes, I understand.’

  ‘You sound very cheerful, incidentally, on this fateful day.’

  ‘What fateful day?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? There’s been nothing else on the radio in London all day, and the newspapers are full of it.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Well … Our homeland is stricken with shock and grief.’

  ‘Just tell me what’s happened!’

  ‘The Generalissimus is dead.’

  Kitty paused. Her mouth silently repeated the sentence. She let the words dissolve on her tongue. The Generalissimus is dead!

  ‘You must really be my guardian angel,’ she said suddenly, and sensed a slight confusion at the other end of the line. The person the voice belonged to cleared his throat; it sounded as if he were smiling, or trying to suppress a smile. ‘You always have fantastic news for me!’ she almost screamed.

  ‘I am definitely not allowed to hear such things. I’m going to hang up now, and we’ll speak again in two weeks. At the same time?’

  ‘Yes, yes, wonderful, let’s do that — thank you!’

  Kitty ran out onto the street and started singing at the top of her voice. She skipped along the pavement, danced, pirouetted, applauded, laughed joyously at passers-by.

  She started to recite the names of all the victims she could think of. First, prominent victims from the fields of art and science, from the intelligentsia. Then she remembered the parents of classmates who were no longer allowed to mention them; the grandparents of fellow students; she remembered doctors who had suddenly stopped coming to work; she remembered the lecturers and teachers who had abruptly disappeared; she remembered friends of her mother and aunt, all of whom were missing a husband, son, wife, mother, father. The list of names was endless. The whole of Arlington Road was not enough; she had to walk down side streets as well in order to say out loud, at least once, all the names that occurred to her.

  Not until she reached the station did she say: Ramas, Sopio, Andro. She paused for a long time; then she said to herself, in a mere whisper: Mariam. My son.

  The same day, Kitty Jashi gave a radio interview, accompanied by her patroness, Amy, who now also acted as her interpreter. There, Kitty had the chance to perform one of her most recent songs — in her mother tongue — and talk about the hardships of life as a Soviet artist in exile. Shortly afterwards, she received an offer to perform twice a week in a jazz club in Soho, which she accepted with delight.

  After the interview had been broadcast, and recorded in the Lubyanka, Kostya Jashi was summoned by the Russian secret service. Following a lengthy interrogation, he was made to confirm in writing that he had no intention of contacting his sister, and to publicly distance himself from her — more: to denounce her as an informer against the Soviet state.

  They wiped your slate

  With snow, you’re not alive.

  Bayonets twenty-eight

  And bullet-holes five.

  ANNA AKHMATOVA

  The despondent, fearful atmosphere of mourning that reigned across the country had infected Nana, too. As she walked up the hill towards Christine’s house, her steps were hesitant, for she had at last decided to tell the world about her pregnancy, the news of which had been broken to her shortly after Kostya’s departure; in any case, she couldn’t conceal it any longer. And the more her belly swelled, the more an indefinable anxiety also swelled within her about her imminent motherhood. The news of her pregnancy had thrown her completely off balance: she had just been offered a place as a doctoral candidate at the Faculty of Linguistics, and had been preparing for this new phase in her life.

  Once Kostya had left, everyone around her seemed far more enthusiastic about her status as a wife than she was herself. She felt nothing; she would have liked to have been more euphoric, more excited, less sensible, too, perhaps. But she could not identify any major changes in herself. She was still the same person; she had just moved into a different house. They all looked after her, had plenty of advice about how to be the best wife in the world. But she looked around with her big blue eyes and simply couldn’t understand what was so special about marriage. The little time she had been able to spend with Kostya had not been enough for her to be sure of him, to know whether she was really in love.

  The news of her pregnancy had just exacerbated her doubts about the whole enterprise of marriage, love, and so on. She had not said anything to anyone, not to her girlfriends, not to the family, and not to Kostya, either. As she sat poring over linguistics books in Kitty’s old room, she often asked herself whether she knew her husband well enough, whether she even knew where he was heading. Whether she would ever be able to accompany him on his journey.

  Stasia opened the door to her. ‘Did you forget your key?’ she asked in surprise, following her into the house.

  ‘No, but I have to tell you something. Is Christine back yet?’

  They went into the kitchen. Christine was preparing dinner. Nana, who so far had still not really become part of the family despite all the weeks they had lived together, stuck out her belly and said, ‘So — does anything look different?’

  ‘You didn’t seriously think we hadn’t noticed, did you?’ Christine answered, with a mischievous smile. She shook her head in disbelief. Nana gave a coy laugh, a little disappointed that she had failed to surprise.

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘I think we knew you were expecting a baby even before you did. You must be in the fifth month now, at least?’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something to me? If my mother had suspected anything, she would have interrogated me.’

  ‘She knows as well, my dear. It’s very difficult to hide a thing like that.’

  ‘May I ask you something?’ said Stasia. She watched Christine’s slow, considered movements, the careful slicing of the bread, the way she gently buttered it. ‘What are you afraid of?’

  ‘Afraid? What makes you say that?’

  ‘You’re afraid, and I’d like to know what of. Why are you hiding yourself away from the world? And your child along with you?’

  ‘I’m not hiding from …’

  Nana didn’t finish her sentence.

  That night, when Stasia had gone to bed, Christine made her nephew’s wife her first hot chocolate, and comforted her. The chocolate would exorcise her fear, she thought to herself. Stasia had tried so many times to convince her sister that the chocolate exacted a high price from those who tasted it, but Christine had laughed at her and accused her of being superstitious and naive.

  And so, that night, Nana tasted her first hot chocolate, made according to my great-great-grandfather’s secret recipe, and experienced a powerful, stupefying, incomparable sense of bliss, the pure, vibrant joy of being at one with the world. A world in which a loving h
usband awaited her somewhere beside the cold sea; in which it would be possible to offer their child a beautiful, sheltered, happy life.

  The next day, Kostya was called and informed that he was soon to be a father. His irritation that his wife had kept this news a secret for so long was quickly forgotten amid the great joy over the impending birth. Once the news was officially announced, whole armies of women flocked around Nana and didn’t let her out of their sight until my mother was born, on 26 June 1953. They plagued her with fresh apples and cornmeal porridge, yoghurt, soups, and chicken broth, overripe plums, and many, many words of advice.

  *

  One morning, a month or so before the birth, Christine was sitting in the garden reading the newspaper, when she suddenly recoiled at the sight of his face splashed across a whole page. She lowered the paper, but her eyes were still glued to the photograph, as if in an instant it had turned back time. As if this were one of the days when the black Bugatti would drive up Vera Hill and pick her up on the street corner. As if she were still living in constant fear of Ramas coming home unannounced.

  Trying to shake off the uninvited memories, she finished her coffee and inhaled the scent of lilac that enveloped the city at this time of year. She relished the abundance of nature that bloomed so marvellously in Tbilisi every May, but there was now no way she could make this day go according to plan. She picked up the paper again and read the text beneath his portrait: it was about the party the Little Big Man was to give the following Sunday in his majestic villa on Machabeli Street.

  It was a celebration of his return, a tribute to his future. He was thought to be on course to achieve ultimate power. And at that point in time, all the signs, all the stars, did seem to indicate that he would soon be appointed the next ruler of the Red empire. First Deputy Premier, then Minister of Internal Affairs of the Soviet Union, the man who had succeeded in merging the Interior Ministry and the secret service in such a remarkably short time, the man who had even been given the title of Marshal, the man behind the Soviet nuclear bomb — admitted at last to the Central Committee’s illustrious inner circle. Yes, everything indicated that the Great Georgian had finally made way for the Little Georgian, and left his vast territory in his hands.

  Christine stared at the picture again. His features, his eyes, his expression, his gaze — all were so appallingly familiar. She wondered how many women like her he had, in the interim, sampled, chewed up, and spat out again. She tried to imagine the new, younger, beautiful women at his side. She remembered his last, unsigned letter, in which he had given her hope that Andro would be saved. She remembered her fear of this letter, how long it had taken her to open it. She remembered the roses he had sent her every day for a year, all those painful months when she was bed-ridden, unable to look at herself in the mirror, when her sister had made her the chocolate … The hot chocolate! Suddenly, a malicious grin spread across her face.

  She lifted the newspaper and pressed the page with his face on it to her chest. Like a small child in a moment of great indecision, standing with a new doll in her hand, not knowing whether to accept it or smash it against the wall.

  As if struck by lightning, she let the newspaper fall and rushed into the house. She went down to the cellar that had once housed Ramas’ collection of rare and expensive wines, and where now old clothes, banished memories, and things that were no longer of use mouldered away in cardboard boxes. She started ripping boxes open, rummaging in them, working her way through the dusty mountain of old possessions — until at last she found what she was looking for.

  She may have been past her prime — approaching forty-six — but she still knew exactly how to deploy make up to conceal the passage of time and present her halved beauty in the best possible light. She ran up to her room with the turquoise silk dress in her hand, held the fine material up to the light, searched for and found every blemish, and set to work. The tiny moth holes could be filled with pretty embroidery; with proper laundering and a little dye, the radiant colour could be restored. The most important thing was that she must still be able to fit into the dress.

  She took off her clothes and slipped the dress over her head. After Ramas’ funeral, she had wanted to cut it to pieces, but she couldn’t bring herself to sacrifice the expensive material, with its artful cut and breathtakingly elegant shape. She had, however, banished it to the cellar so she wouldn’t have to look at it every day, and until this morning had never even contemplated getting it out again.

  Now, as she put it on and sensed the flattering material on her hips, her legs, her breasts, for a moment she felt regal again, sublime. The feeling she had always had at Ramas’ side. The feeling that had seemed so essential to her in her old life, and which had abandoned her so utterly since Ramas’ death.

  That evening, she had worn a necklace of black pearls. That evening, the last of the year 1927. The pearl necklace had been sold a long time ago. A simple silver chain would have to do.

  The dress fitted perfectly. The silken, turquoise dream. The dress with the dizzying back view that revealed the dimples above her buttocks. The dress her husband had approved, with an awed, surprised, ostensibly reproachful shake of the head. Her husband, who had been rendered momentarily speechless by the sight of his wife. Who had been bowled over by her ingenuity; who had presented her so boastfully to his boss, his friend. His choicest work of art. His goddess.

  And if she had still possessed the Venetian mask, and had put it on again, she would have closed her eyes and heard the sounds all around her, the laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses; she would have smelled the delicious food. She would have been able to see the tinsel, glimpse Stasia in her swan costume, Sopio Eristavi dressed as a man, Ramas in his expensive dinner jacket. And in her imagination, at least, she would have refused to admit the illustrious guest whose arrival was awaited with such excitement. Would not have shown him around the house, would not have chatted to him, and would have prevented her husband from revealing her to his guest like a unique and precious jewel, when he knew full well how much this guest coveted such jewels, how he seized them for himself.

  All that night, Christine worked on her transformation. Dipped the dress in dye, washed and ironed it. The following evening, when she looked at herself in the mirror, she could almost have been the old Christine, the Christine from before the New Year’s ball — had she not been wearing a little black lace mask over the left half of her face. But she was content.

  Then she went to the kitchen, packed the necessary ingredients — which she kept in a secret hiding place, concealed from Stasia — into her handbag, and lay down on her bed with a racing heart.

  *

  Black-clad security guards asked again and again to see her invitation, but she stubbornly insisted that they go and fetch the host. She felt their astonished eyes on her back, on her hips, and knew she would get in. She knew, too, that she would succeed in turning back time. They conferred among themselves; one of their number was dispatched into the illuminated villa. There was an embarrassed clearing of throats; they were visibly uncomfortable at the thought of having to turn this beauty away just because she wasn’t on the guest list.

  Limousines drew up outside the villa; ladies in elegant dresses and men in dark suits got out. And in their midst, Christine, uninvited, yet attracting everyone’s attention. Standing there in this dress in front of these high gates, it was so easy to be the old Christine, the woman everyone turned to look at, whom everyone marvelled at, who was loved, and who loved, without even knowing it, with such excruciating completeness. Loved her big, sad, disillusioned husband. It seemed so easy to believe that he was still alive …

  Then she saw him striding down the wide avenue of palms, through the beautiful garden he had created over the years and which surrounded his villa like a protective wall. With its stately cypresses and the lush greenery. Its exotic plants and little stone-paved paths. A real Shangri-La — if you didn
’t know who lived in this villa, who was lord of this magical garden.

  He greeted some of his approaching guests, shook their hands, smiled. Suddenly, he stopped, his eyes fixed upon her. His expression changed, but at this distance she couldn’t tell, couldn’t decipher, what it was he was feeling. For a moment, she thought he would go back into the house and leave her standing at the entrance, but then he took a purposeful step towards her, ignored the other guests arriving, and like an emperor striding through his subjects — who fall back before him out of admiration, out of fear — he came to her. The guards stepped aside, allowing him to make a dramatic entrance, as if it were a carefully rehearsed piece of choreography. She smiled the most enchanting smile she could muster and held out her hand. He clasped it in his warm, moist fingers, and his face assumed an expression of the most profound humility.

  ‘I thought you wouldn’t want to accept my invitation; I didn’t want to put you in an awkward situation.’

  ‘And now I’ve put you in an awkward situation.’ She said it quietly, scarcely moving her lips. She said it not apologetically but proudly, in a tone of mild reproach.

  ‘No, no, don’t be silly. Please — you are my most welcome guest!’ he replied, and offered her his arm. It happened so quickly; she was assigned the role of empress so quickly. And she accepted the offer: tonight she would play this part with the greatest of pleasure. And this time she would need no rehearsal. For she had had time to prepare herself for the role, ever since the night her face was split in two.

  *

  Intoxicatingly beautiful, provocatively flaunting her beauty. Confident, unapproachable, she stepped through the great gates. At his side, on his arm. Beneath the burning, envious gaze of the illustrious assembled company.

  She entered the packed ballroom: floors of finest marble, gold ornamentation on the hand-crafted stucco that adorned the incredibly high ceilings. Already the chamber orchestra was playing, champagne corks popping, alcohol flowing.