‘Our Nelly?’
‘Our Nelly?’ asked Giorgi, perplexed. The man gave him a slightly crooked grin and raised his eyebrows meaningfully, as if to indicate to Alania that he was speaking of a particularly delightful person whom he could warmly recommend.
‘She’s a local character, you could say. A, er, very well-known lady. She lives in the big white house just behind the Archaeological Museum. And she can see into the future, too, so watch out, be on your guard …’ Now the official was smiling maliciously.
‘See into the future?’
‘Yes, yes; she reads coffee grounds. And how!’
Alania interrupted what seemed to be turning into an uncomfortable conversation, thanked the official, and took the bus to the Green Cape along the shoreline of the dark, oily sea. It suddenly made him feel sentimental, evoking memories of his childhood, and made him miss his mother with an overwhelming, physical sensation.
You could hardly miss the house. It had been built at a time that recalled the hopeful era when the Rothschilds and Nobels were flirting with the Caucasus, when the Grand Hotels were being planned and the white ships from Europe could anchor in the local harbour without customs offices or any major hindrance. The house’s old opulence had outlasted Bolshevik taste, but time had taken a serious toll on it. Slender-limbed bamboos shielded it from strangers’ eyes. Alania stepped warily through the tall, rusty garden gate. Some little children were chasing a ball. He stopped the eldest boy and asked for Comrade Lezhava. The boy, annoyed at being called away from the game, just pointed upstairs.
Alania went in through the open wooden door, entered a marble-tiled hallway, and climbed the stairs. The stairwell was dilapidated; rainwater dripped from the ceiling, forming greyish puddles in various corners. When he reached the top he came to a green wooden door covered in peeling paint, and stopped. Should he turn round? Should he raise his hand and knock? Did she know the truth about him? What if this woman had nothing new to say to him? He knocked.
It was a little while before he heard a deep female voice: ‘What the hell is it now? I haven’t got any flour! I don’t cook, and I don’t have any onions either; and besides, I don’t even live here, when are you finally going to understand that?’ He knocked again and heard hurried footsteps on the other side of the door, which flew open at last, accompanied by a long stream of curses.
In front of him stood a … well, a vision. A tall, fleshy woman with an impressive bosom and beautiful, thick blonde hair that she had wound into a perfect bun. She was dressed in a lettuce-green slip, and was barefoot.
Her face suggested a life lived at full tilt; she was wearing crimson lipstick and had concealed the heavy, dark rings under her eyes with powder, which gave her a peculiar, doll-like appearance.
She looked surprised; presumably a strange young man had been the last person she was expecting.
And for the first time in Alania’s life a miracle happened: her expression of irritation and surprise transformed into an irresistible smile. She plucked at her neckline, smoothed the slip over her hips, and in a catlike drawl breathed, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I heard that you read coffee …’ murmured Giorgi Alania. He was now completely out of his depth and already breaking into a sweat. The woman opened the door a little more, peered down the stairs, then pulled him into the apartment by the sleeve of his jacket.
Like the rest of the house, the apartment had seen better days. What was left of the wallpaper clung to the wall rather than being glued there, and the tap, installed incongruously in the middle of the living room, dripped steadily. By contrast, the ceiling was adorned with an enormous chandelier that would have been more suited to a theatre than to this dark, damp abode, with its countless dusty souvenirs and the decorated hatboxes piled up in every corner.
‘Who sent you to me?’ she asked, and gestured to him to take a seat at a clothless round table heaped with objects.
‘An acquaintance.’
‘An acquaintance. Uh-huh. Normally I’d throw you out at once for that silly answer. But you don’t look like one of them. I know who I can trust and who I can’t. I can read faces like I read coffee grounds. But I hope you realise we could both get into a lot of trouble if you go around talking about my gifts. I’m here under a kind of house arrest; they keep an eye on me, they won’t leave me alone. What have I done to them? Whose side am I a thorn in?’
Her whole body, her eyes, her mouth were flirting with him, radiating affection, they didn’t recoil from his obvious lack of confidence, his shyness; no, they enticed him, encouraged him to look at them, to adore them. An unfamiliar sense of self-satisfaction warmed his belly. Inconceivable: his whole life until now without this affection, without this enchanting benevolence, this feeling.
She went over to a kitchen alcove, separated by a folding screen, and started to make coffee. The delicious scent filled the whole apartment, as if it were trying to accentuate Alania’s happiness. When she returned with the coffee she was wearing slippers embroidered with flowers, which for some unaccountable reason filled him with delight. (She had dressed for him, had clothed her bare feet for him!)
‘So what do you want to know?’ she asked, sticking a filterless cigarette in the corner of her mouth.
Who raped my mother and got her pregnant! In his confusion, he almost blurted this out, but he managed to restrain himself in the nick of time, murmuring instead, ‘About my professional career, and …’
‘Let’s have a look. What’s your name?’
‘Giorgi.’
‘All right, Giorgi, genacvale. Drink all the coffee, then tip the cup upside down onto the saucer and let it stand, then turn it anticlockwise with your finger and ask your question, but not out loud, just concentrate on what it is you want to know. I alone can’t do anything if your mind is blocked.’
‘All right, of course, I understand.’ Alania nodded like a first-grader being given his homework.
He tried to concentrate, but the only thing he could think of was the attention she was paying him, her sweet, rather weary scent that filled his nose. He brushed the coffee grounds with his finger, placed the cup on the saucer.
‘What did you mean by house arrest?’ he asked her, in an attempt to break the awkward silence that ensued, because the coffee grounds had to dry.
‘Ha! What does it mean? That I’ve been a naughty girl and there are some men who are angry with me. I’ve fallen out of favour, as they would have said in my youth. Where are you from, Giorgi?’ she asked, finally turning the cup over.
‘From Kutaisi,’ he lied.
‘So where did you leave your accent?’
Alania sensed her mistrust.
‘I live in Russia. I did my training in Leningrad, and now I work in Moscow.’
‘Ah, that’s excellent. An important man, then. What’s brought you back to your old homeland?’
‘My mother’s death,’ he blurted out.
‘How terrible. My deepest sympathies. Always hard, when your own mother … Even though mine was cross with me all her life.’
She stared into the smeared cup as if she were reading a map there, a coded map.
‘Well well, look at this! I see a lot of praise and recognition here. You’re on the right path, Giorgi, genacvale, oh yes, you’ll keep climbing your ladder; but rather desolate at heart, aren’t you? Empty and sad. How’s that, Giorgi? How can that be? So young — you should be enjoying life. Time never comes again; missed opportunities don’t come round a second time. Instead, you’re troubled. I see a long road here. You’ll be going on a journey. A long journey, but a fruitful one. You will get there — oh yes, you’ll get to where you want to be. But you must fill your heart, Giorgi, otherwise it will never be enough, no matter what comes, no matter what people say to you, no matter how many medals they pin to your breast; your heart is so terribly empty.’
‘
And my mother …?’
‘No; the grief for your mother, may she rest in peace, is not the only reason for your emptiness, is it, Giorgi?’
The way she said his name, as if her voice had been laced with honey, made him want her to go on speaking like that for ever, to keep talking to him and never stop. And she told him about many things that were supposedly troubling him, things he longed for and felt the lack of; she remained vague, lost herself in hints and allusions, yet he had the sense that she knew him, saw through him, even, as no one ever had before. He could no longer contain himself; something came over him, something bigger than himself, bigger even than his eternal question, the thread running through his entire life, and he started to weep, and at the same time was ashamed of his tears: all of a sudden, with no warning, tears were spilling from his eyes. She put her hand on his shoulder, stroked his head and repeated soothing words in her healing voice.
‘It’s all right; poor, poor Giorgi, oh God, such an empty heart, we have to do something about that right away, you have to do something about it, so alone, so lost, we have to do something about that, Giorgi, genacvale.’
We! This simple word sounded like a magic spell to him. At last he looked at her; something in the way she was comforting him gave him courage, and he dared to kiss her hand, which was resting on his shoulder. She stroked his head; he rose to his feet; he was a little shorter than her, but that didn’t seem to bother her, either. Would she recoil if he went further? Broke through all his boundaries and gave her a kiss, right on her painted scarlet lips? Would she throw him out, would she curse him? She touched him; he had brought her hand to his lips; he simply had to finish what he had started. He laid his head on her collarbone; she did not recoil. He put his arms around her soft waist; she smiled at him, she was not ashamed of him. He kissed her and she returned his kiss.
Before long, they were lying on the wide bed with its sagging mattress, which was propped up on piles of heavy books. He pulled up her slip with a single movement of his hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if he had done it a thousand times before. No struggle, no agonies of embarrassment accompanied this attempt to disrobe, be close to, a woman’s body. And so it was, that afternoon, that Giorgi Alania crossed into happiness with slow, deliberate movements, entirely without shame, sure of himself, with the unprecedented feeling of being truly desired. Of being longed for, wanted. Perhaps even — although it wasn’t possible, he knew it, even at that moment — anticipated. He was so happy to let somebody catch him. He felt free, as if he were floating, as if not even the laws of gravity could touch him; as if he could fly.
When he rose from this bed, late that evening, he was a new man: it was as if he had been reborn, confident, radiant, a whole head taller. Nelly, already back in her slip, was sitting at the round table, placing the cards. He dressed carefully, not taking his eyes off his new lover, still stunned by his good fortune.
‘I just want to say, I’m under pretty close surveillance here. I’ve already had to give up the whole floor, apart from this room, to that pack of vermin. If they find me with a male visitor I’ll lose this dump as well. So I think you should probably go now, Giorgi, genacvale.’ She said it without raising her head from the cards.
‘Yes, of course. I’d like to see you again, though.’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged. It’s just that I have to be a bit careful, you understand.’
‘Yes, I understand. But if I can put in a good word for you at the commissariat …’
‘You’d do that?’
‘I would, if I might come again.’
‘Want to tell them how good I am at my job, eh?’
A bitter note had suddenly entered her voice. The honeyed sweetness was completely gone.
He didn’t approach her again, didn’t want to disturb her, even though he would have liked to have given her a kiss; he stood in the doorway, hesitating, dressed and ready to go, hoping she would see him out.
‘When may I come again?’
‘Next week, maybe.’ She shrugged. ‘But Giorgi, listen, I don’t want to be rude, but the thing with the coffee grounds … I have to live off something, you know. I like you, and there’s no way I’d ask if these were different times, but …’
He felt an icy cold take hold of his body. He would have given her everything, would have moved heaven and earth for her; he would have brought her to Moscow, yes, he’d even been thinking of it as she lay in his arms, but now … not this! She couldn’t ask him for money.
‘Yes, of course, of course, I forgot.’
And he put all the money he had in his wallet on the little chest of drawers by the door.
*
If Alania had known that Nelly, this woman who had once dreamed of a career in theatre, had already bestowed this happiness on countless men, that her youth and her once-proud beauty were the price she had paid for never having to work in state employment, that she had once possessed beautiful diamonds, hats, and dresses, had had her own box at the theatre and an automobile, and in return would always wait until her men decided to leave their families for an hour or two in order to visit her. If he’d known that she had forgone a family of her own, had sought out solitude as her most loyal companion, and had repeatedly allowed herself to be thrown away like rubbish as soon as a man grew tired of her; that she had already had to endure countless words of abuse, torrents of hatred, and scornful looks; if he had known that for the past five years, after the death of her most long-standing and influential benefactor, the public prosecutor, she had survived by reading coffee grounds and doing embroidery; if he had known how willingly she would have forgotten all these injuries, exchanged them for other memories. If he had known that it was Nelly’s drunkenness, her slipping and falling that night, that had led to his conception against his mother’s will. Yes, if he had known all this, would he nonetheless have claimed her attention, her passion, her feigned comfort, and would he have stayed, in the intoxicating hope of being waited for, perhaps even loved? It’s a question I will never be able to answer for us, Brilka.
The right to a failed life is inalienable.
AMÉLIE
Dawn was breaking; outside it began to drizzle. The sky had filled with clouds like a herd of animals. Kitty had talked a lot about herself, and in detail: about her feeling that she had become a figure with no umbilical cord, disconnected, without desires, floating freely through the air like an orphaned balloon that had slipped from someone’s hand at a children’s birthday party.
Before, he had talked a lot himself, an astonishing amount. It seemed to him that he hadn’t talked as much in centuries. He felt weightless. Fearless.
He wanted time to stand still, just as it had all those years ago in Nelly’s little attic apartment; Nelly, who might perhaps have been able to give him the liberating knowledge he sought, and instead had gifted him, for his journey through life, a disappointment that could never be healed.
It was so good to be able to see himself for a while through Kitty’s eyes. And perhaps what she saw was actually true. Partly, anyway. Perhaps, in all the years of their long telephone calls, he had learned to be so much better than he was in real life. For her. For her voice. For her freedom, for the peace of her soul. Because she deserved it. He had never doubted that. She had not disappointed him.
Yes, of course he wanted to stay with her, to stop time. Still surprised that she had tracked him down. Unclear what the consequences of this encounter would be. Unsure how far he could let her into his life. And how he hated it, and had hated it all these years, that she thought it was fear of losing his position that held him back. How he would have loved to make clear to her that it wasn’t about him, but her — her security.
And how he loved to look at her. Constantly, once he had overcome the shyness that had been building inside him for years, shyness of the body to which her voice belonged. The woman in fr
ont of him was made of flesh and blood; like that time, that one time long ago that she didn’t even remember. Her mind had erased the image, the memory. The memory of that banal encounter in the sleepy little town near the steppe, in the empty station, when he gave her the package from her unhappy, lovelorn brother and asked her to stay with him until his train arrived and he could continue his journey home. But perhaps it was better that way. Better for her. He, however, had always had a phenomenal memory; this memory was precisely what had made him an irreplaceable secret agent. And this memory had retained, preserved forever, the image of the schoolgirl she had been back then, in this other life, in another era, in another world. This was the image he had recalled, this was the image he had pictured when he heard her voice, until her photos appeared in the press, until he even managed to see her in person, at one of her concerts, from the anonymity of the crowd.
He liked her way of gesticulating, her laughter lines, her expressions, her faint scent of baby cream, and the impression she gave of being slightly disorientated, out of place: even within her own four walls she seemed like a guest, as if she hadn’t learned to accept this place, this language, these objects, even these clothes as her own.
He had talked about his work, even though he’d firmly intended not to. About all the shadows that pursued him, all the faces that had burned themselves into his skin like invisible tattoos. She had drunk whisky without speaking while he went on sipping at his glass of lemonade.
Later, he had talked about Leningrad, about the Naval School, and about Kostya. His voice always grew animated when he talked about this happy time. Even now, after so many years, all the things that had happened in between had not managed to dim this happiness.
Alania had never married, although, in the course of his life, he had had opportunities to do so. There had been women who had shown him that they were impressed by his prospects, his knowledge, his power, his quick wit, his subtle, refined, almost polite brutality. He could have deceived himself, could have interpreted these longings as love and settled down. But he had sworn loyalty to one woman, and he always kept his promise. That woman was now sitting in front of him. The brothels of London had provided him with what Kitty’s voice was unable to give. It had always seemed the easiest way. He bought himself illusions, he bought himself a few hours’ intimacy, and in time he learned to give himself over to these illusions. He sought out cultivated prostitutes. He entertained them; sometimes he went out with them, sometimes he bought them presents. They liked him, and he liked them, because they were good liars. Better than most respectable women.
The Eighth Life Page 74