The Eighth Life

by Nino Haratischwili

  The victors must and can be judged.

  GENERALISSIMUS

  She pushed his hand away from her face, sat up suddenly in bed, and listened.

  ‘I think I heard something.’

  ‘What is it?’ he asked drowsily, staring at Christine, wide-eyed.

  ‘I think someone’s in the house.’

  ‘Who would be down there at this time of night? Who still has a key to your house?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps … He didn’t give it back to me. Although he hasn’t been here once since the move.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kostya.’

  As she spoke his name, she could already hear footsteps in the hall. She sprang up and hurried to the door, throwing a cardigan over her shoulders and signalling to Miqa to stay in bed. She peered out, stepped into the corridor, closed the door carefully behind her — and saw him running up the stairs. He was groping his way along the wall; apparently he hadn’t found the light switch. Something had happened. He looked agitated. As she approached him she smelled the alcohol on his breath.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked sternly, hoping she appeared reasonably composed.

  ‘How could you?’ he bellowed at her, at the top of his voice. His eyes were swollen, his cheeks red, beads of sweat were forming on his brow. ‘Why are you covering for that monster?’

  He recoiled, going down a couple of steps as Christine walked towards him. She had to get him downstairs, into the kitchen, away from the bedroom.

  ‘Kostya, I don’t understand what’s wrong,’ murmured Christine, although it was perfectly clear to her that the house of cards had finally collapsed.

  ‘That bastard, that bastard … What have you done to my girl? You’re inhuman, you filthy … you’re all …’ He was obviously drunk.

  Christine succeeded in manoeuvring him backwards into the kitchen. He staggered and sank onto a stool.

  ‘You’re liars, hypocrites, whores — nothing but cheap whores!’ Suddenly he covered his face with his hands and started sobbing. Christine froze; her heart lurched, and she didn’t know what to say. In a flash, he was her Kostya again, her little boy, her darling. When was the last time she had seen him cry? Had she ever seen him cry? Not even when Kitty … not even when Mariam … No, he hadn’t cried then. What exactly had happened? What did he know, and who had told him?

  ‘I trusted you with my child, my only daughter! I don’t recognise her any more; it’s as if her soul’s been dashed to pieces. And I gave her everything, I tried … What sort of women are you? What sort of people are you, to allow such a thing? Scum, that’s what. My mad mother and my unprincipled wife, they think they know it all — but you — you, Christine? How could you defend him?’ He was crying like a little boy now. ‘I trusted you with my only child, and now this!’

  ‘What did Elene say to you? Tell me, Kostya!’

  ‘She’s gone out — she’s apathetic, lifeless. I don’t recognise her any more. I thought, with the move, and if I came back … But no — I didn’t know about the surprise: it was all because of that bastard, that parasite! His family is the source of all our misery. We paid an inhuman price for those damned Eristavis, but no, nothing’s ever enough for my mad mother, she still thinks we owe them something. But I swear to you, Christine, I’m going to find him and kill him and end this dreadful nightmare once and for all. I swear to you!’

  ‘He didn’t do it. Not the way Elene may have told you. It was a terrible misunderstanding, Kostya. You must listen to me —’

  ‘A misunderstanding? A misunderstanding? What — you as well? He raped my daughter!’

  ‘She was the one who made it happen. She was jealous; she felt neglected. She was angry with us — she thought we favoured him. She didn’t know what she was doing. She seduced him …’

  *

  Kostya’s driver had brought him back to the Green House around seven that evening, as usual. As usual, they had wanted to have dinner, but Elene had not appeared at the appointed time; she wasn’t back yet from her daily walk to the stud farm. Kostya was angry. After the meal, which they ate in preoccupied silence, he started drinking, out of concern or frustration. When Elene still wasn’t home by eleven o’clock, Kostya drove down to the stud farm and round all the neighbouring villages, ringing his neighbours’ doorbells, but nobody knew where his daughter might be. Daria, picking up on the general excitement, started howling and calling for Mama, something she very seldom did. Daria’s tears fanned the flames of Kostya’s anger, and by the time Elene reappeared at the Green House, after midnight and more than a little tipsy, escalation was inevitable.

  Elene justified herself by saying she’d been out with friends and hadn’t kept an eye on the time. Besides, she was an adult and had the right to come and go as she pleased. She lived here cut off from the outside world, it was enough to drive you mad, they should be glad she had managed to find any friends at all out here in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘You’re not even interested in your own child! This is not the kind of woman I raised my daughter to be!’ bellowed Kostya, so loudly they could hear him all over the house.

  ‘Oh yes it is! The two of you raised me to be exactly who I am!’ replied Elene, in a voice dripping with scorn. Startled by her insolence, Kostya could think of no better response than to slap his daughter for the first time in her life. Elene staggered back, blood dripping from her nose. Nana screamed and ran to her daughter, who pushed her away.

  ‘This can’t go on!’ Kostya groaned, and sat down at the table, where he knocked back another glass of red wine. ‘And don’t you go acting so innocent; you’re the ones who ruined her, you spoiled her, you cured her of any discipline, any independence she —’

  ‘And you waltz in here and want us to do everything your way. You may be someone important when you’re with your fleet, but here you’re just the same as everyone else!’ Stasia had joined them; now she was the one doing the shouting.

  ‘You’re the ones who showed her how to live a life devoid of ambition. You’re her role models! She has to start finally making something herself, she has to —’

  ‘If you’d been raped, I’d like to see how you —’ Stasia’s sentence suddenly blew up in her face and immediately silenced the quarrel. She closed her eyes, hoping her son might not have heard, but of course it was too late.

  Kostya got up from the table and walked, heavy-footed, towards his mother. She tried to evade him; she waved him away with her hand and went to leave the room, but Kostya, a whole head taller, was already standing in front of her and giving her a searching look.

  ‘What did you just say?’ he asked, calmly, with military alertness.

  ‘Forget it, Kostya, I shouldn’t have said it.’ Stasia bowed her head and hoped Kostya would leave her in peace.

  ‘Nana! Elene, come here, please!’ he shouted, still barring his mother’s path. Nana hurried into the room.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she spat at him. ‘All your shouting is just going to wake the child. You’re bellowing as if we were in —’ She had more to say, but stopped. Stasia’s expression boded ill.

  ‘Who?’ Kostya hissed through his teeth.

  ‘Who what?’

  Nana glanced around, confused, hoping for some explanation from Stasia.

  ‘Elene!’ Kostya shouted again. His voice echoed alarmingly off the walls.

  Finally, she appeared in the door. Her eyes were red, and she was holding a cloth full of ice cubes under her nose.

  ‘Now what do you want?’

  ‘Who did it to you? Who?’

  Absolute horror spread across Elene’s face. She immediately knew what her father was asking. ‘What have you told him?’ She turned to the others for an answer, her eyes filled with black, viscous fear.

  ‘Tell me, for God’s sake, tell me!’ Kostya looked at them all, simultaneous
ly incredulous, angry, beseeching. Stasia bowed her head; Nana cleared her throat; the heavy silence became unbearable.

  Elene knew she had the choice not to betray him; to protect him, finally to put an end to her lie. But she didn’t. She would tell. Yes — she would say his name, because the moment she shut her eyes she saw his in front of her. His eyes, above her. And the more time passed, the more she learned to live with her self-loathing, the more she reproached herself, the clearer it became to her that he had sacrificed her. It was his fault that that afternoon had ended with a trickle of blood on her thigh.

  She didn’t know what he had sacrificed her to or why; no, that she hadn’t yet been able to understand. Whether it was the injustice she must inevitably personify in his eyes, or whether he had taken advantage of the situation — accepted it, submitted to it, borne it and not defended himself, not because he couldn’t, but because he was hoping it would lead to something bigger. Something that might compensate him for all that would follow.

  Yes, Elene wanted to know the truth. She wanted it very badly. But every time she thought she had identified it, it turned out to be a lie. Every time she thought she was getting an answer to her why, it turned out to be another question.

  ‘Miqa.’

  And at that very moment, as she spoke this evil name, this curse, out loud, a terrible fear overwhelmed her. She had destroyed something. She had smashed her hope with her own two hands. Now she was truly lost, and … it felt good, it felt liberating.

  Not to fulfil any expectations. Not to deserve any love. Not to hold out any prospect of rescue. Now she would perish with him. With him. Yes. If he didn’t want what she had to offer, he would have to accept their shared misfortune. Yes. Amen. Hallelujah.

  Perhaps there was a fraction of a second in which she could still have put her arms around her father’s shoulders and explained it all to him, hugged him tight, wept before him, spoken out, and finally shed this terrible burden. But the moment passed, and was lost. What words would have sufficed to explain her whole life to him, the sum of all the things that constituted the essence of her up until that afternoon? And what words would have sufficed to cross Miqa’s lies and her own and arrive at a common truth?

  *

  ‘You’re very upset. I’ll make you a cup of tea. We’ll talk more tomorrow. First you need to calm down and sleep. I’ll make up the bed for you.’ Christine was frantically thinking how she could get Kostya to bed and Miqa out of the house. She struck a match to light the gas stove.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Miqa’s hesitant voice. He was calling her, in the belief, or hope, that Kostya had gone.

  ‘Who the hell —?’

  Kostya immediately sat bolt upright and listened. He stared at his aunt in disbelief. Miqa called her name again. Before she could answer, Kostya ran out of the kitchen. She rushed after him. Miqa had been standing at the top of the stairs, half-asleep; Kostya had already grabbed him and knocked him down. First, he drove his fist into his solar plexus, and then, as the boy lay whimpering and writhing on the floor, he followed up by kicking him. When he tried to crawl away, Kostya grasped the nape of his neck as you might hold a savage dog back by the scruff, and yanked him to his feet. He punched him in the face. Miqa’s lip split and blood ran down his chin, spattering his vest. Christine, who had come between them, heard her own voice screaming continuously; it seemed very far away, as if it didn’t belong to her. But Kostya pushed her aside. She had to cling on to the banister so as not to lose her balance. Miqa slid along the wall, trying to get away, to run into the kitchen or out of the house, far, far away from this punishment he would never escape.

  *

  Punishment for what? Why was it that every time he tried to approach the essence of what had happened, everything coalesced in an impenetrable blackness? Who had betrayed whom, who had hurt whom? Another blow caught him, in the ribs this time. He slumped to the ground. It hurt like hell. His chest was spattered with blood, he could taste it on his tongue. Kostya’s silhouette was blurred by the pain. He wanted to fight back, to squeeze all his strength into his fist and smash Kostya’s face in, but he couldn’t do it. Christine was watching him. Him: the one she had chosen. He had to live up to her expectations. She, the incomparable, the unparalleled.

  He didn’t care how old she was; he wanted her to need him as much as he needed her. He would not shrink away. He had to prove to her that she had made the right choice in renouncing her family for him. Her family, and above all her nephew! This furious sadist! Yes, she should watch, she should know Kostya’s true face, because it had never really been about him and Elene, Elene was just the excuse; it had always been between him and this man who was now laying into him in such a frenzy.

  And if he were to hit Kostya now, Christine would doubt him. She would never be able to love a violent man. The scars on her face alone would forbid it. For him, choosing Christine also meant that he had to remain a victim.

  He could hardly hear Christine’s screams any more; they sounded muffled. Would it perhaps be better to lie down, here, on this cold wooden floor, and never get up again? Would it be a heartrending sight for her? Another blow between the ribs. He couldn’t breathe. He opened his mouth, gasping for oxygen; he mustn’t lose consciousness, he had to control himself, mustn’t oppose him, mustn’t hit back.

  Only when his face hit the floorboards did Kostya let him go, exhausted; he stepped back and looked at him with revulsion. But Miqa felt nothing now. Nothing mattered, because he knew that he had won. Christine was kneeling before him; now she would ease his pain, lay his head in her lap, wipe away his blood.

  The sun rose. Cold, grey December light penetrated the hallway, making the scene appear even more hopeless than it already was. She felt her nephew’s eyes on the back of her neck, and turned. ‘Have you got what you wanted? Then you can go. I need to take him to hospital.’

  Kostya’s eyes were glazed. She wanted to pity him, to be able to forgive him, but felt only emptiness inside. She turned back to Miqa, supporting his head with her hand.

  ‘If I see that bastard here one more time — if I catch him once more anywhere near you or Elene, I will personally see to it that he’s locked up for the rest of his life.’ Kostya marched back down to the kitchen.

  Christine helped Miqa roll onto his back. He kept his eyes closed, but she knew that he was here, with her. And that was the most important thing.

  ‘Don’t move. I have to call a doctor,’ she whispered in his ear.

  ‘Will you stay with me?’

  ‘Yes. I’m here. I’m staying here. I’ll be right back.’

  She heard the rushing of water in the kitchen. Laying his head carefully onto the floor, she got up and followed the sound. She had to call an ambulance. Kostya stood by the sink, holding his face in the jet of water.

  ‘Now you listen to me, Kostya! I don’t want you ever to go near that boy again, either. Do you understand? I am not letting him go. No — I’m not doing that again. He didn’t do anything. Ask your daughter, interrogate her until she tells you what happened. I did not raise a rapist. But you have raised a liar. That’s the truth for which you’ve broken his nose and ribs. And now you’re going to put my key on the table and get out.’

  She went to the phone and dialled the emergency number.

  Kostya stood propped against the wall, exhausted, hurt, rejected — not a victor, just an old, sad, terribly lonely man.

  ‘What are you talking about? You’re my aunt — you’re Christine, my Christine …’ he stammered, as she asked for the ambulance. ‘You need someone to bring you to your senses. I should never have let you stay behind here on your own.’

  He started to move towards Christine.

  ‘Don’t come any closer. Stay where you are.’

  ‘Or what?’

  He approached her. She stood her ground. She could bear it. She could bear
to lose him. She loved him, her nephew; it was a love that had always challenged her, demanded too much of her, a love that would always have to be endured. But she had to think of the boy, the boy with the Eskimo ice cream who now lay half-unconscious on the floor, the boy she had to protect.

  ‘He’s not staying here, Christine. Not in my house.’

  ‘This is still my house, may I remind you. My husband’s house!’

  ‘You were only able to keep it because I —’

  ‘Go! Get out!’

  She had never despised him as she did right now. Not even when he hit his sister; not even when he sent his fiancée to the scaffold. She had always had some understanding for him, always — until now.

  ‘Don’t take that risk, Christine!’

  All she had to do was hold out her hand, to her nephew, who for so long she had worn so close to her heart, like a priceless amulet, and who at some point, without her realising, had cut the chain from which the amulet hung. But she stayed firm.

  ‘Get out!’

  When the ambulance arrived and she asked to ride with them, they asked her if the two of them were related. She replied in the affirmative and got into the back of the vehicle, holding Miqa’s feeble hand in her own. On the way to the hospital she asked herself, again and again, why he hadn’t tried, not even once, to defend himself.

  Life, I hold your reins in my hand

  Thus from your Hell I forge a Paradise.

  TABIDZE

  The American bombing offensive in North Vietnam was followed by the food sack offensive, in which the US Air Force dropped sacks labelled ‘Donated by the people of the United States’ all over the devastated country. And Christine received a letter from the housing department. She was invited for an interview, where she was informed that, as a single woman, it was capitalist selfishness to claim such a large amount of living space. Christine, who had already prepared herself for the impending war with Kostya, and was under no illusion that she could win it, did not attempt to beg the officials not to throw her out of her own home. She was given the choice of handing over part of her living space to strangers, or accepting an apartment allocated to her by the state. She opted for the latter.