The Eighth Life

by Nino Haratischwili

  And now there were worthless tears. Now there were fatherless daughters and motherless sons, now there were party badges on people’s chests, now there were disorientated girls and boys behind bars, there was scorched earth; there were still La Bayadères and Petrushkas, but for a long time now there had not been any parts in them for her.

  Stasia was collapsing beneath the weight of her neutrality. What an effort it cost to absent yourself from the world.

  She stood there in a threadbare nightdress, bare legs in filthy rubber boots, and looked out at the morning, at the dawn breaking over the land. The morning was infinitely, painfully beautiful. But the people who could have delighted in this beauty were wounded; they could not become one with it, were condemned to remain observers for all eternity.

  Neutrality was an illusion.

  A new day was breaking over Stasia.

  Everything in the world is justified by history.

  ANTON CHEKHOV

  The film was called The Story of A Careless Dream. A rather pretentious title, admittedly, but certainly excusable in a young artist. For months he had worked on it like a man possessed. He had reconstructed his grandmother’s life with tremendous dedication. And where he lacked money, he had used light and imagination, concentrating on the faces of his actors, deploying the tricks of the Surrealist filmmakers.

  With the help of Lana’s caramel-soft seductress voice, her dark eye of the disadvantaged, her fists of the oppressed, he had been able to win over a few fellow students — in particular, a promising young actress to play the lead. He had managed to convince them all of the necessity and significance of his film.

  He had talked about it incessantly, like a madman: every image, every shot was important to him, he gave his cameraman a thousand instructions, storyboarded every scene with Lana, right down to the last detail. Again and again, he stressed that they couldn’t afford to make mistakes, that any potential risks must be dealt with in advance.

  Christine, wearily summoning all the strength her age permitted, had protested against it. She clung to the Cassandra role she had chosen, constantly speaking of the terrible future, yet never being believed; she never tired of warning Miqa about the dangers of the film. Every time she had a moment alone with him she would try to convince him to abandon his project, until he started to cut himself off from her, to come home later and later; until he shut her out of his secrets.

  Their shared world, for which Christine had already paid such a high price, fell to pieces. And she felt that, in Miqa’s world, she was like the scent a departed traveller leaves behind on objects and on clothes, a scent that grows fainter, more fleeting, day by day, until one day it vanishes completely.

  *

  They had already started editing the film when Lana realised she was pregnant.

  She knew how sacred the film was to Miqa, and that any delay, any threat, any distraction could lead to a nervous breakdown. These past few months he had been so tense, so nervous, had even developed an almost pathological mistrust of his team, seeing spies and informers everywhere who might betray him. He shut himself off. Gave out no information about the current status of the project. He was unstable, full of doubts and fears. Lana had to support him; she had to go down this road with him right to the end. She had to pull herself together and keep the exciting news under wraps; she had to focus on him. She was his right hand and his left, and now, now of all times, when he was so insecure and eaten up by anxiety, those hands must not tremble.

  She took a certain pride in how well she had mastered everything, how confidently and unerringly she had organised and coordinated the shoot, for months. And yes, she had always feared the moment when the film was finished, when it was sent out into the world, when he no longer needed her to steer his thoughts onto orderly paths and conquer his doubts. But now she had nothing more to fear: he would stay with her; she was carrying his child now, and that was far stronger, far more definitive than anything that had bound them before.

  So she decided to keep the news to herself until the film was ready.

  But then things started to happen very fast. One piece of carelessness led to another. Her uncle, who had made the film studio cutting room available to them for several nights, felt that he was getting out of his depth, and as he didn’t want to risk losing his job he asked the two of them to look for another editing room to do the rest of the work. Now they were dependent on the film school. The whole team knew they mustn’t let anything slip about the project, yet the walls inside the Institute were not leakproof. There were too many students going in and out, and rumours spread all too quickly, like the one that Miqa Eristavi was planning a minor cinematic insurrection in the editing suite. The rumours travelled up from floor to floor until at last they reached the directors’ offices. A provocation? The commission began its investigation, summoned, questioned, harassed those involved, demanded information.

  Lana had to act quickly. She spoke to the team again and again, used all her overwhelming powers of persuasion, made it clear to them how important it was that they kept their mouths shut, how important it was to shroud themselves in silence until the final cut of the film was released, to let nothing, absolutely nothing, leak out. She painted the film’s glorious future in glittering colours: she spoke of invitations to foreign festivals, of prizes; she even let slip the illustrious term resistance fighters.

  In all my life I have never met another woman who devoted as much energy as Lana to being an ideologist. For good or ill. Hers was a pure ideology of opposition. Permanently against something or someone. Never resting. Never achieving her aim. Never forgetting. Her fanaticism, it seems to me, was the mainstay of her identity. Not even pregnancy could stop her from plunging into this sea of intrigue, lies, and manipulation, just to guard Miqa’s Holy Grail.

  However, not everyone was prepared to risk as much. Not everyone was happy to see themselves in the role of resistance fighter, and this film was not so sacred to everyone that they were willing to get thrown out of the Institute, or worse: menacing warnings, punishments, being barred from their profession.

  The camera assistant proved to be a man of weak disposition, and when he was summoned before the commission for the second time to confirm his initial statement — that it was just a harmless little film — he lost his nerve and admitted, shamefacedly, that he was not entirely sure the film really was in keeping with the Institute’s philosophy, as everyone in the team had claimed. The following day, the entire group was summoned and subjected to detailed interrogation. The directorate ordered Miqa to hand over the reels of film to the board of examiners immediately.

  Panic erupted. The actresses wept, the actors swore, the cameraman cursed the system, the sound engineer scratched his head, the lighting technician tried to sow seeds of hope — but everyone was agreed: Miqa had to hand the film over to the board. What was the worst that could happen? They might issue a ban and destroy the footage and they’d make a different, more conformist graduation film, but with a little remorse they’d all be out of danger. Surely he didn’t mean to put the future of his fellow students on the line?

  Miqa was lost for words, so Lana spoke up again. She berated them all for being cowards and fainthearted bureaucrats, incapable of fighting for an idea, incapable of taking risks, risks that came with the territory when you were an artist. She even called them feeble caricatures of artists. And before anyone could respond to or refute her accusations, she dragged Miqa, like a schoolboy, out of the cameraman’s apartment where they were meeting to try to find a way out of the looming crisis.

  Miqa was indignant. As they stepped out of the entrance hall onto the street, he started shouting at her, saying she had made him look ridiculous in the others’ eyes, as if he had no voice of his own.

  ‘Excuse me: you didn’t say a thing! One moment longer and they would have convinced you to hand in the footage tomorrow, and draft an apology as
well. That’s right, isn’t it, Miqa? I know you. I can read your thoughts and doubts before you’re even aware of them.’

  ‘I hate being treated like a child!’

  ‘Oh, really?’ She strode away and left him standing.

  ‘I’m talking to you, Lana!’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about. You’re an artist — they’re not.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ He hurried after her.

  ‘You’ve put everything into this film — we’ve put everything into it, and I’m not going to let these cowards ruin it for us now. You knew people wouldn’t applaud you for it. I told you there would be obstacles.’

  ‘Obstacles? These aren’t obstacles. We could all be slapped with an employment ban, and I —’

  ‘What difference does it make, if you can’t shoot the films you want to shoot, or if you’re not allowed to shoot any at all? Would you care to explain?’

  ‘I can’t just turn them in like that. These people trusted me; they did what they could. Now it’s up to me to protect them.’

  ‘Oh, really? And what about me and your baby?’

  ‘Baby?’

  ‘Look, I wanted to tell you later, so you could edit in peace, and —’

  ‘You’re pregnant?’

  ‘Yes. I’m pregnant, Miqa. We’re having a baby. According to my calculations —’

  ‘And you didn’t tell me because you thought I should edit the film in peace first? Have I understood that right? Wait — stop, will you, you’re practically running.’

  ‘I don’t want to stop. I don’t want anything. I want to go through every contingency for tomorrow with you and then go home. I’m tired. It sickens me, constantly being surrounded by people who don’t know how to make use of the opportunities they’ve been given. Who have everything and don’t even value it. I’m sick of always wasting my time with these idiots. Is it too much to expect a bare minimum of professionalism?’

  ‘Hey, Lana, Lana … Wait! What’s got into you? Come here — let me look at you, at least.’

  ‘The bus will be here any minute; come on, Miqa.’

  He caught up with her and tried to grab her elbow, but she slipped away and carried on walking.

  ‘Lana, you can’t just tell me like that, in passing, that you’re pregnant, and then not even stand still; my God, what’s the matter with you?’

  Suddenly she turned to him, her face contorted in a mask of disgust, contempt, and pain, and snarled, ‘I don’t want an idiot as a husband! And my child certainly doesn’t deserve a coward as a father! I haven’t turned my life upside down all these months, ignored my own interests and needs, plunged head first into this madness, and spent the whole time charming these brainless, talentless people for you just to throw in the towel now! Do you understand me, Miqa?’

  She was seething with rage. He had never seen her in such a state. Lana, the model of composure and self-discipline, unbeatable in the art of self-control; Lana, far-sighted, patient, unerring, solution-orientated. He didn’t understand where this ugly aggression, this blind fury, had come from all of a sudden, but it was obviously clouding her clear vision, making her incapable of understanding the seriousness of the situation.

  ‘Tomorrow you turn up with a friendly smile, you put a brave face on it, you show how baffled you are by the hysteria around your little graduation film, and then you shrug your shoulders and claim the reels have disappeared. It’s that simple. I’ve given them to my uncle for the time being; I told him to hold on to them for a few weeks, until all this has blown over. After that we’ll find a way. That’s what you’re going to do; that’s what we’re going to do, Miqa.’

  She had got herself under control again. On the last sentence her lips even parted in a contented smile.

  ‘Come on, they’re not going to lock you up over a film that nobody’s seen. Hey, Miqa, don’t look at me like that. We’ve got this far, we’ll get through the last bit as well. And nothing’ll happen to the others. We bear full responsibility.’

  ‘Not we, Lana. I do.’

  ‘You’re very much mistaken about that.’

  All of a sudden she looked as if all her determination, all her strength had left her. She bowed her head and stuck her hands in the pockets of her jacket, as if seeking protection.

  ‘Aren’t you even a little bit happy?’ she mumbled sheepishly.

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  She moved her hands inside the jacket pockets to make her belly look round.

  ‘What do you expect of me?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t expect anything. I just wish you’d say yes.’

  ‘Yes to what? To you? To the baby? To your plan?’

  Now she looked at him. The uncertainty left her body in a flash, and her expression was impenetrable once more. He was ashamed: he would have liked to have given her a better answer, but he was still overwhelmed by her tone, her uncompromising demands, the furious insults she had heaped on his collective. But Lana was her old self again: indomitable, fortress-like, a woman without ghosts, the woman without mysteries. Effortlessly she swallowed the bitterness his words inevitably provoked in her, and set off for the bus stop.

  ‘We’ll have to get married now, won’t we?’ he asked her on the bus, taking her hand in his and pressing his forehead pensively against the dusty windowpane.

  ‘The only thing you have to do is save this film! I’ve got through worse things than being jilted by a man while pregnant,’ she replied, in her usual sarcastic tone, and pulled her hand away.

  *

  He got back from a state banquet in the early hours of the morning, weary but self-satisfied. He stank of wine and the invisible imprints of female attention bestowed upon him during the party. He wouldn’t even have noticed her as he passed her on the terrace if she hadn’t greeted him.

  He stopped, puzzled. ‘Why are you sitting out here at this time of night?’

  ‘Sit with me, please. I’ll make coffee for you as well.’

  ‘Can’t it wait? I’m dying of exhaustion.’

  ‘No.’

  He succumbed with a groan, and sat in the rocking chair with the sunflower cushions that it would take my sister and me many more years to destroy. Stasia served her son the promised coffee and sat down beside him.

  ‘Miqa’s made a film. A graduation film. About his grandmother. And now he’s being interrogated. You have to sort it out.’

  It wasn’t a request. Kostya sipped at the hot coffee and took his time replying.

  ‘Sort it out? Me?’ he asked, as if he wanted to make sure he’d understood her correctly.

  ‘Yes. You have to.’

  He started laughing, as if his mother had just told him a malicious joke.

  ‘You all think I’m omnipotent, don’t you? Anyone in a hundred-kilometre radius who gets into some kind of trouble thinks they can come running with it to me?’

  ‘He isn’t anyone.’

  ‘Exactly. Correct answer! He’s the one responsible for my daughter’s misfortune. And he can count himself lucky that I let him go on living! I think I’ve been generous enough.’ He stood up abruptly and started heading towards the house. ‘Oh yes, and tell Christine — because I know she asked you to do this — that she’s made her decision, as I’ve made mine.’

  ‘Kostya, wait …’

  He dismissed her with a wave of his hand and opened the front door. He went into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, saw the print on his cheek of a pair of red lips, shapely and wrinkle-free. He began to shave. He saw his clear face in the mirror. Carefully he sprinkled the shaving powder onto his palm, rubbed water into it, smeared the foam on his cheeks, applied the razor. A slight sting. Pomegranate-red liquid trickled down his left cheek.

  He heard Daria chattering. She must just have woken up. The realisation elicited a smile; his li
ps parted between the white foam and dark-red blood. Somewhere a dog barked. A gentle breeze wafted through the corridors and rooms. There was an unforgivably tantalising smell of spring. Someone switched on the television. Vremya was on. News was being broadcast to the world. To each his own. It was a Saturday. Nana didn’t have to go to work. Soon she would start ironing his shirts, Daria’s clothes, the romper suits that belonged to his daughter’s fatherless baby, Elene’s trousers (always those scruffy trousers, never nice clothes in a feminine style!).

  Soon Elene would force herself out of bed with the baby in her arms, would head for the breakfast table with the discontented expression that had become a permanent fixture on her face. Then she would wander apathetically around the grounds and gaze longingly down at the stud farm where her John the Baptist was no longer to be found. She would roam about, restless, compulsive, her trouser pockets full of years, her best years, to throw away.

  The small cut on his face was throbbing. He ran some water into his hand and splashed a few drops on the bleeding wound.

  Stasia’s footsteps. She was bustling about the kitchen. Was she making jam, at this ungodly hour? The scent of peaches poured from the kitchen. Were there peaches already? Or were they plums? She would gaze at him reproachfully all day, he knew it. She would give him the silent treatment.

  The baby wasn’t silent, it was screaming. Kostya refused to speak my name. He found my name — as he had Daria’s — idiotic. How did you come up with such a name? Why did Elene have to be different from everyone else, even when naming her children? And emphasise it, too. Why couldn’t she give her children normal names? There were plenty of pretty girls’ names. But no, she always had to thwart his plans; she, his daughter, who had become such a stranger to him.

  He dabbed at the cut with the corner of a towel. The material soaked up the blood. A small scratch on his face. One more.

  When had they all lost this ability — the ability to be happy? he asked himself, staring at the bloody corner of the towel.