‘You’re not doing so well. Let’s get out of here.’
Fred was standing in the doorway. What a beautiful person, Kitty thought to herself, looking at her in the mirror, and what a waste.
‘I’m fine.’ Kitty straightened up.
‘You’re lying. I’ve got a car, and I’m sober. Let’s run away.’
‘Where to?’
‘Wherever you want.’
‘There’s nowhere I want to go.’
‘There’s always the sea.’
‘That’s too far.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Come on, I’m not going to gobble you up. You need some fresh air. Come on!’
They crept out the back way. Fred had parked an old van not far from the stage door. Amy must have got her a backstage pass; she would hardly have got into the club otherwise. In the van, Kitty was suddenly overcome by an incredible tiredness, and closed her eyes. She had brought only her guitar and a small handbag. She’d even left her coat behind.
‘You need to head for Eastbourne. I’ll tell you where to turn off,’ she told Fred, before falling asleep.
The journey of almost two hours completely passed her by. She hadn’t slept so well and so deeply for a long time, without nightmares jolting her awake.
‘So this provincial backwater is where Madame Jashi is making a home for her old age?’
Kitty slowly opened her eyes and heard Fred laughing.
‘Go left here; it’s the second turn-off on the right.’
She switched the light on. How long was it since she had last been here? When her sad friend had come to find her, arriving out of the blue and promising to return.
The house seemed lost in a sleeping-beauty slumber. The night was clear and warm. They could hear the sea. Kitty instantly felt better. Fred lit a cigarette and stood outside the door.
‘Let’s go down to the water. I’ve got big torches and blankets. There are some dried peaches left, and some good Scotch.’
Fred agreed enthusiastically.
They made their way to the sea with the torches. It took them a while to walk the narrow path along the steep cliffs and down to the beach, where they spread the blankets on the damp sand and stretched out. It was so frighteningly peaceful and quiet. The sharp sickle of the crescent moon bathed the water in a yellowish light.
Fred touched her, her hand wandering up Kitty’s spine. Then she took Kitty in her arms. Kissed her face. Stroked her skin. Kitty let it happen. It felt good. It felt like coming home. The stars were sprinkled across the sky like tiny freckles. They lay together. They brushed the hair from each other’s foreheads. Kitty took Fred’s face in her hands and looked at her, committing her to memory.
‘It’s my turn now,’ said Fred Lieblich.
A few metres away, at the foot of the cliff, Kitty saw Andro standing; she rubbed her eyes, tried to concentrate on Fred’s face, but he was still there. He had returned. She sensed his presence with every fibre of her body.
‘What is it?’ asked Fred, grasping her wrist. ‘Are you cold?’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘I want to know what’s wrong. I want to be there. For you. Please, let me.’
‘Let’s just be here, you and me, that’s all.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘We can go to Vienna.’
‘Vienna.’
‘I could show you some beautiful places, if they’re still there, and we can drink the best hot chocolate in the world.’
‘I doubt that.’
Fred laid her head in Kitty’s lap and dreamed herself away, to the Vienna of her childhood. Before she learned what it sounds like when you cut a body down from a rope. She sipped the good Scotch Kitty had brought. Later, she couldn’t remember when exactly she had fallen asleep.
*
Kitty took off her clothes. She wanted to be naked. Free. She folded her underwear. Neatly, as her mother had taught her when she was a little girl. Andro was standing behind her, watching. Then she stepped tentatively into the cold water. The waves pounded against her skin, made her suppress the cries she wanted to let out; she dived under. The water carried her out. In the distance she could still see the light of the torches, the blanket, the woman lying on it, until everything fused together into a tiny bright dot.
Andro was swimming behind her. Kitty swallowed water. The waves were high; they rocked her to and fro, tossed her out and back again. She was afraid, but only briefly, only until Andro’s face appeared before her again. Darkness lay over the water; she couldn’t see anything in front of her and she was disorientated. Even the light vanished into the distance. Then, suddenly, something gleamed beneath her feet. Little fish, a shoal of little fish was circling her. It made her laugh out loud.
This is happiness, thought Kitty: happiness. Like afternoon sweat on our skin after we made love, back then, the first time. The last song tonight, and the gratitude in Amy’s eyes. The loneliness of Giorgi Alania, which I ended for one second of his life when I held him. The bus journeys across America. These fish beneath my feet, this moon above me, these cliffs, these waves, and the fear, vanishing.
She circled her arms in the emptiness. There was no shore any more. No earth. Just nothingness, and the little fish, swimming with her, and the endless water.
Kostya’s laughter, when she managed to make him laugh. Andro’s soft kisses on her lips. Cherries, which always gave her a stomach ache. Her mother’s worry lines, at the exact centre of her forehead. The songs. The concert in Amsterdam, the incredible excitement that had greeted her. Had she earned it, this happiness? If all these people knew what she had done, would they go on buying her records and singing her songs?
She went under; she could feel her strength leaving her.
‘Mariam?’ She reached out her hand. ‘Did it hurt? What was it like? Does it hurt?’
They stood me against the wall. Then the first shot came. And then another. I think there were three; they do it to make sure. It was quick. I didn’t feel much. Don’t worry.
Mariam’s voice echoed in her head.
‘I don’t want you to hate me, Mariam.’
How could I hate you, Kitty? Don’t you remember how good things were when we were together?
‘It wasn’t good. It was hell on earth.’
Don’t talk nonsense. Remember. We lived, Kitty. We were there.
Kitty couldn’t reply. Her lungs were already filling with water. But the fish swam around her and shone with a fantastic green light.
*
Her body was pulled from the water three hours after Fred Lieblich alerted the coastguard. She hadn’t drifted very far. She’d never been a good swimmer, and it hadn’t taken long for her strength and breath to fail her.
I’ll swap the government for a kilo of macaroni!
PLACARD AT A DEMONSTRATION
The film was released in cinemas and caused the expected furore. First and foremost, Brilka, I have to tell you that I really was bowled over by my sister and the way she played her role. I sat in the House of Film during the unofficial premiere and watched Daria change into another person. I couldn’t believe that Daria could play a role so convincingly, that she was so capable of transforming herself. The film was good, and it moved me.
At the end, the whole auditorium rose to its feet, and, amid lengthy applause, the actors, including my beautiful sister in a strappy silver dress, were invited onto the stage. The lovely cameraman, Lasha, stood beside her with his arm around her shoulders.
There was something narcissistic about him. He was fashionably dressed and had fine features, but his eyes were cold, as if they could only perceive the world through the viewfinder of a camera — the world, and people. People, with the exception of my sister. He practically devoured her with his eyes. But I thought he was too old for her, and in any case h
e already had a wife, who had come with him that evening to the screening and hung on his arm throughout for all to see. A woman just as chic as he was, and perhaps as superficial.
What did Daria see in this man, I kept asking myself at the premiere party afterwards, which was held in a restaurant by the river.
Daria would be invited to all the official receptions from then on, so at some point we would have to reveal our secret. It was only four weeks until the film would be released in cinemas, provided the censor didn’t step in before then. But it had been kept very symbolic, its references were more general than direct, and people were fortified by the new wind blowing from Moscow, so the assumption was that everything would go ahead as planned.
That same evening, I convinced Daria to confess everything to Elene and Aleko, reassuring her we could deal with Kostya later.
‘In about two weeks, Daria is going to become a kind of rising star in the acting firmament. I just wanted you to know beforehand, and I want you to support us — I mean her. Daria.’
We were in the kitchen. My mother was washing dishes and Aleko was reading the paper. Daria had locked herself in the bathroom, fearing that a storm was about to break over her.
‘What are you talking about?’ Elene asked, off-hand, still occupied with the dirty dishes.
One thing at a time, in a calm, considered manner, I explained our scheme to her: the trip to Bakuriani without Daria, Latsabidze’s support — right up to the private screening that evening.
‘We weren’t at a birthday party. We’ve just been to the preview of the film, and Daria really is bloody good!’
They stared at me uncomprehendingly. Aleko’s mouth hung open. I thought he would praise me, pat me on the back; he’d always praised me for being what my mother called ‘an annoying clever-clogs’ at times. This time, though, I seemed to have completely confounded him, and there was no support from his side.
‘How could the two of you do something like this? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?! After everything I’ve had to go through with your grandfather!’ Elene screamed at me. Her face was twisted with pain. ‘And do you know what will happen because of this? You lied to me! You led us all up the garden path! My own child, my daughter!’
I was surprised, and unprepared for her rage to be directed at me.
‘But Deda, it’s turned out to be a great film: everyone loved it, and —’
‘Oh, bravo, Niza! Do you actually know how old you are? Do you know? How grown-up do you think you are?’
‘It was what I wanted. Niza was just trying to make amends.’ At last Daria had come out of the bathroom to support me.
Elene fell silent for a moment. Then she sat down and buried her face in her hands. For a while we all stood around in silence, waiting for her to look at us again.
‘Make amends? You wanted to make amends … You can’t make amends for anything, that’s just a bloody lie, remember that!’ she said, suddenly quiet.
‘Elene, please,’ said Aleko, trying to calm things down.
‘What? “Elene, please” what? She’s landed us all in a bloody awful situation. And if she thinks she’s so clever, she can come up with another plan as to how we’re going to make amends for this — and how I can stop my father denying me access to the house my daughters live in. Because I’ll be the one who’ll end up paying for all this again.’
‘I think you could give her just a tiny bit of recognition. I mean, at her age … well. You could be the future leader of the Communist Party if you carry on like this, kiddo.’
But Elene looked at him scornfully and went on shaking her head.
‘She lies. She lies all the time. I wonder when it started. What we missed. She plays truant, she sneaks around, she hangs out with Lana’s lazy son — it seems her grades have gone down as well. She could be top of the class with no effort, but apparently that’s too much to ask from this little madam. She’s got better things to do.’
‘He’s not lazy,’ I said, in a small voice, in Miro’s defence.
*
The new General Secretary published an article in Pravda that spoke of ‘class interests’ and ‘general human values’, and was regarded by conservatives in the country as the ultimate renunciation of Lenin’s legacy. The gradual withdrawal of Soviet troops from Afghanistan and the summits with Reagan, the nuclear disarmament treaties being discussed, were further signs of the Soviet Union drawing closer to the West.
There was unrest in the Lubyanka, too. By coincidence, Alania returned to work that day, after his long absence. He only went to the press department that morning in search of a colleague who might be able to tell him about upcoming cultural visits to Europe. He had to get a foothold in the ministry again quickly, so he could apply for another trip as soon as possible. A gentleman and a lady in a mohair jumper were sitting hunched over some newspapers, scanning the foreign press. They went about their work with aggressive boredom — the enthusiasm for this task, which had once been so coveted (you had all the major foreign newspapers at your disposal, an incredible privilege), seemed to have disappeared. Alania even harboured the suspicion that the material they filtered out didn’t even end up in the thick files on their superiors’ desks any longer, because these days no one was interested in what people in other countries were writing about. The threat had shifted: it no longer came from outside the borders of the Soviet Union, but from within.
In passing, Alania’s eye fell on an edition of The Guardian lying on a table. During his time in London he had been a regular reader of the paper, and now a sentimental urge made him reach for it.
‘Comrade Alania? Can we help you?’ the woman asked, unwrapping the tinfoil from a sandwich.
‘I’m looking for Comrade …’ Alania fell silent, holding the paper in front of his nose as if he were being remote-controlled. ‘Excuse me, but …’
The lady rose from her seat, but Alania stopped her with a very firm gesture.
‘When was this paper printed?’ he asked in an authoritative tone.
‘Last month sometime. Three weeks ago. Look, it’ll say on the … oh, right, the front page is missing. What is it, Comrade Alania? Is something wrong?’
Without replying, Giorgi Alania marched out of the room with the newspaper in his hand and went out into the street.
The international music scene is mourning the singer Kitty Jashi. Miss Jashi, who gained enormous popularity in the 1960s with her catchy, heartfelt songs and her political activism …
Alania sat down on the pavement. His legs were shaking. He tried to make some connection between this shocking news and Kitty, the woman who kept him alive, and to whom he had promised to return. His mind started calculating feverishly, he reckoned up the days, the dates, and the single burning question that formed in his head was whether he would have reached her in time if Kostya Jashi hadn’t stopped him. Whether she would still have been alive today.
*
The call came just as Elene had finally plucked up her courage and gone up to the Green House, with Daria and me in tow.
The day before, she had informed her father over the phone that she had something to discuss with him, and now the four of us were sitting in the living room. We could hear Stasia humming in the garden and Nana making dinner in the kitchen. Elene had revealed to him, as calmly and collectedly as she could, that he would soon be seeing his beloved granddaughter on cinema posters, and, more importantly, on a number of screens, and that unfortunately this was a matter of fact and there was now nothing to be done about it.
Kostya drank his strong black tea without saying a word, and nothing in his body language, his outward appearance, showed that he had taken in what Elene had just told him. We could hear the clock on the wall ticking; Daria shuffled restlessly in her chair and kept looking over at our grandfather. I chewed my fingernails, waiting for the lightning that would strike at any minut
e, and the thunder that would come with it. This was between Kostya and me — I knew that, even before he got up and came towards me with his hand raised threateningly.
‘So you thought this up, did you, you little bitch?’
Elene rose from her chair; it was pure maternal instinct. Then Daria lunged towards him: ‘It’s what I wanted — I wanted it, Grandfather!’
But in the middle of Daria’s shouting, Nana burst into the room. She was stony-faced, and her plump cheeks were flushed. She was holding a saucepan lid in her hand, and her lips were parted.
‘Telephone!’ she stammered, but Kostya didn’t turn round — he kept his eyes fixed on me.
‘Not now!’ he shouted.
‘Yes, now!’ Nana’s voice quivered.
‘I said not now!’
‘For god’s sake, go to the telephone!’ she cried, and fell limply into the chair her husband had just vacated. Kostya moved slowly, suspiciously, towards the door.
‘Who is it?’ he asked, erring on the side of caution.
‘Alania. He’ll tell you himself,’ whispered Nana, and let the lid fall from her hand.
‘Mama? Is everything all right?’ asked Elene.
‘It’s just …’
‘Go outside!’ said Elene, turning to Daria and me, as if she’d just remembered that we were there.
Before we left the room, I heard Grandmother say Kitty’s name.
They cry that I stole the moon, and that it was theirs.
VLADIMIR VYSOTSKY
The Eighth Life Page 92