‘Right, then. I kept my word,’ I said, turning my face away. But he grabbed me by the waist and pulled me towards him.
‘Didn’t I say you had many talents …’
Now his voice sounded excited. The arrogance had left his face. I tore myself away, took a step back, and buttoned my shirt again. But as I did so he planted himself in front of me and grabbed a handful of my tousled hair. In seconds he had pulled my head towards him and was looking right into my eyes. Still, yes, even then, I was sure I would manage to escape, to forget this horribly stupid, unforgivably idiotic idea of mine and never see this man again.
‘You’re a good player, Einstein,’ he whispered in my ear, before licking my neck.
I tried to put up as little resistance as possible, saving my strength for the crucial battle. Because there would be one — of this I was now sure.
‘That’s enough, Cello. You’ve had your fun — and, come on, I’m sure a guy like you wants bigger breasts than mine.’
I don’t know why I said that to him. Whatever I was trying to achieve, I achieved the exact opposite. He pulled harder at my hair and made me cry out in shock and pain.
‘You think you’re better than me, do you?’ he yelled. ‘You think I’m not worthy of you? Well, we’ll see, won’t we, we’ll see about that …’
He shoved his hand between my legs. I bent forward and pushed him away with both hands. He still had hold of my hair, and dragged me with him. I tried digging my fingernails into his hand to free myself, but he didn’t loosen his grip.
‘You think you’re so superior, don’t you? You little slut!’ he yelled, and spittle flew from his lips and hit the tip of my nose. How I hated this word. Slut! It reminded me of Lasha. Reminded me of my sister’s powerlessness. Of the sacrifices she offered up to her executioner. I summoned all my strength, and despite the pain in my head I managed to free myself from him and punch him in the stomach. I wanted to hit lower down, to lay him out, but he dodged, stooped, went red in the face, and tried to grab me again.
No, it really wasn’t my day. My lucky streak had completely run out.
I started running. Knocked over empty glasses and two chairs. I was heading for the exit, but he barred my way and made a grab for me. He caught my sleeve, pulled me towards him; I slipped away, tried to get my hands on something I could cling to, but failed. He seized me by the waist again, spun me round, encircled my throat with one hand, choked the air out of me, threw me to the floor. I crawled away, coughing, gasping for breath. I pulled myself up on an old printing machine, but already he was standing behind me, I could smell his breath; he pressed himself against my backside and started unbuttoning my trousers. Something rammed into my stomach; the pain was crippling. It was a metal handle, and I tried to wriggle away from it while simultaneously resisting him, moving my hips from side to side so he couldn’t get at the buttons on my trousers.
But as soon as he managed to grab the first button, he ripped the rest off (why did even my buttons let me down, why did they put up no resistance, why did they give in so quickly?!) and my trousers slipped down of their own accord, as if they were conspiring against me.
I remember him holding both my hands behind my back with one of his. I remember that as he penetrated me I felt as if I had to throw up. I remember him whispering in my ear the whole time. Panting, breathing heavily. But I don’t remember what he said. I just recall this ‘Good, good’, every letter of which he pronounced as if he were saying the word for the first time and had to get used to the sound. I remember that for some reason, as he bore down on my pelvis with the whole of his weight, bending me further and further over, I thought I had to try and remember some poem, some story, and concentrate on it — something I liked, something familiar, to distract me from his mechanical movements, his muttering and panting. But I couldn’t think of a story strong enough to block out this wretched, painful reality. Instead, a song suddenly came to me. I tried to follow the melody until it crystallised clearly enough in my head. It was Edith Piaf. ‘La Foule’. It’s a song I’ve always loved, and suddenly I could hear a whole orchestra in my head, and then the shimmering voice of Piaf piercing through it all, and even though I didn’t recognise or understand individual words, I clung to her scratchy R, her hard L, listened to the accordion in the background and tried to imagine a dark stage, on which — far, far away from here, I was sure, in a place where I had never been, and more importantly a place where he had never been either — the little sparrow stood, illuminated by a single spotlight, singing her song just for me, just to me. It was a beautiful idea, and for a few seconds it succeeded in taking me away from this place and blocking out his clumsy, brutal thrusts.
I remember that he had difficulty, kept stopping, trying to find a more comfortable position for himself, all the time twisting my hands up my back. I remember that once or twice he even let out a cry of annoyance, as if he were dissatisfied with his own qualities as a lover; but of course he took out his frustration on me and abused my body all the more ruthlessly.
I remember that — when Edith had stopped singing, although she had already sung me an extended, much slower version of her trademark song — I wondered why he didn’t stop, why he wasn’t finished with me, with himself, with his urge. Why did it keep on starting all over again? How many hours, days, weeks was this going to last? When had time stopped, and above all, who had stopped it?
I remember that I didn’t scream. That I stood there mutely waiting for time to start up again, for the hands of the clock to resume their movement.
And then he turned me round, furious that he was unable to ejaculate and get his triumphant satisfaction. He threw me to the floor and fell on me, pushing my legs apart with his knee. Now he upped the tempo, and his breathing became unexpectedly calmer, more regular, as if he were feeling really good now, not having to rush or make an effort. I turned my face away. I didn’t want to look at him. And then I saw the chacha bottle we had emptied together. It was lying there, an abandoned, now useless object that one of us had knocked over in flight or pursuit — rolling gently back and forth, as if trying to keep time with him. I remember that I had seldom in my life been so glad to see anything as this empty bottle.
I had to free my hand in order to reach it. I had to be quick. I wouldn’t get a second attempt; not with my current run of bad luck.
I slowly released my arm, which was trapped under his chest. In order not to draw his attention to my movement, I put it around his neck. As if I had finally come to terms with having to give him pleasure. He registered it with a brief groan. Then I raised my arm cautiously, laid it on the floor, stretched out my fingers and finally — the first bit of luck I’d had that evening — touched the cold surface of the bottle. Now I had to shatter it with one blow and hit him with the bottleneck. His panting was growing louder as I swung it back and smashed it on the floor with all my might. The noise gave him a start, but he was too close to his ultimate pleasure to be able to pause, let alone stop altogether. And that didn’t matter now: the bottle — the only friend I had in this room, after even my buttons had let me down — was broken, the neck ending in jagged shards. And it would do. It would serve its purpose. As he finally looked up, overcome with convulsions, the bottle in my hand hit his waist and cut into his skin.
He let out a howl, no longer capable of putting the brakes on his pleasure, despite the pain, and rolled sideways. The next time, I struck harder. The glass pierced his arm, and blood began to run onto my stomach. He curled up in pain and let go of me completely. But he still seemed to be in a haze, he still didn’t comprehend the full extent of my hatred.
In a flash, I was back on my feet, bending over him, my trembling hand holding the sharp bottleneck in front of his face. I looked at him properly for the first time. The scar that split his eyebrow in two. For some reason, I imagined that another woman who had once been in my position, who had held another broken bottle, had
left this scar behind. Something about this improbable idea was very satisfying. I held the bottleneck out towards him and waved it in his face. But suddenly he convulsed, his eyes widened as he kept looking into mine, he stretched out his bleeding arm, his mouth twisted into a contented smile, and he ejaculated, letting out a loud, almost joyful laugh as he did so.
I remember everything, but I don’t remember what I felt through it all.
Wherever we had been in Russia …
the magical name of Georgia came up constantly.
People who had never been there, and who possibly never could go there,
spoke of Georgia … as a kind of second heaven.
JOHN STEINBECK
The worst thing was not my inability to weep over it, or that I told nobody. Nor was it the fact that I could hardly bear to touch Miro any more, couldn’t explain anything to him, punished him vicariously for something he couldn’t have the slightest idea about. And it wasn’t that my anger and my hatred were directed inwards more than towards the person who had done this to me. The worst thing was the numbness inside. The huge emptiness. My self-control in dealing with everyday things. The emotionless continuation of business as usual. Carrying on silently as if nothing had happened. Not letting anything show, just being disciplined and capable after that unspeakable experience.
The days were like waking dreams that followed the night. Stasia’s voice at my bedside. The images in my head and the attempts to replace them with Edith Piaf.
The aroma of chocolate came at night, as always: powerful, irresistible. Lasha’s fits of rage, Daria’s groaning, Elene’s whispers, Nana’s cautious footsteps, and Kostya’s oppressive silence. Waking dreams in which, little by little, Stasia brought the past closer to me. Waking dreams from which you couldn’t rouse yourself. My failure. My powerlessness, which I thought I had smashed with a broken bottle. How very wrong I had been about that.
By the end of July 1993, everyone knew that Georgia didn’t stand a chance in Abkhazia. With the exception of Sokhumi, all the centres in Abkhazia were occupied by Abkhazian, Russian, and ‘hired’ military forces from Caucasian republics. On 27 July, with Russian mediation, an agreement was signed for the immediate withdrawal of the Georgian military from Abkhazian territory. The contract also ruled that all Abkhazian troops were to be overseen by Russian ‘peacekeeping forces’. That summer, some of the Abkhazian refugees returned to their ruined villages and towns. The authorities said all of Abkhazia’s schools and universities would reopen on 1 September.
Daria’s belly was round and her resistance fragile. She looked weakened. It seemed to be only a matter of time until the dams broke. And they broke. They broke at the same time as the Georgian-Abkhazian-Russian agreement. They broke on the day the Sokhumi massacre began.
On 16 September, Abkhazian troops stormed the city. The offensive had been planned beforehand at the headquarters of the Russian ‘peacekeeping troops’. And these troops were not permitted to intervene. However, they took up key positions on the border, so that the Georgian troops who were left in Sokhumi couldn’t hope for any more reinforcements.
The number of civilian victims, who were driven out of their houses and shot in the street, ran to five thousand. Later, more than one thousand cases of rape were registered. Torture victims were never counted.
All those who had survived the offensive had to flee to the mountains again, hoping for a second time that they would reach the valleys alive.
Daria’s desperate, near-hysterical voice woke me with a start.
‘No, it’s not your baby; is that what you want to hear? It isn’t. I whored around like you told me to, to get hold of your fucking drugs. I did everything, yes, everything you imagine in your sick fantasies, and much more. Satisfied? Yes? Do you want the details, you cripple?’
This word changed something. It was an evil curse that should never have been said out loud. A sinister magic spell. But it was the way she said it, much more than the word itself, that frightened me. Behind the obvious and provocative contempt, her voice concealed a deep wound. As if she were directing the word at herself. As if she wanted to hurt herself with it.
He said something I couldn’t make out, though his tone was calm, almost submissive; then I heard the door open and slam shut again. I looked out of the window and saw Daria, barefoot, walking through the garden. I saw her cross the vegetable plot and head towards the hill. She carried her belly in front of her like a shield, swollen, leaning back slightly as she struggled up the slope. I was already pulling my plimsolls on to run after her, but I stopped in the doorway. I could feel that there was no strength left in me. Not a single word of comfort, not a shred of emotion that could have been a crutch to her bottomless sadness.
When Daria returned from her night-time escape, she announced to her family at the breakfast table that from now on she didn’t care what happened to Lasha. She wanted nothing more to do with him, and she was about to call his parents and tell them to come and collect him, or what was left of him. No one asked what had caused her sudden change of heart; no one probed, no one took sides. Then Daria disappeared. Nobody knew where she was; I even had to go and search for her in the woods. Not even when Lasha and his wheelchair were loaded into a minibus by his parents, who had sacrificed everything they owned for their only son, did she make an appearance. It seemed by then she didn’t have enough love left to say goodbye.
*
In November, just three days before my birthday, Daria’s waters broke, and I drove to Tbilisi, ignoring all the speed limits, flying through that year’s unexpected early snow. When we pulled up at the hospital, the whole place lay in darkness. The electricity was off again, and I had to light the way for the groaning Daria with a torch, up the stairs to the maternity ward — and persuade you, Brilka, in your mother’s belly, to give us a few more minutes to find our way to reception.
I spent a long time thinking about how I should introduce you to this story when you finally came into the world. This story, which is being told only in order to reach you. To reach you and, with you, the beginning. The whole purpose of writing this story is for you to come into the world again and have the chance to start everything differently, anew.
And I came to the conclusion that, at this point, I can’t go on writing if that you exists twice over. I’ve decided to make you my Brilka to start with, so that I can carry on with my story, can reach you at long last: you, the true, the actual Brilka, whom in any case I won’t be able to describe, not with all the words in the world — you, who could offer me the only you that I couldn’t transform into a she.
But as long as I am still forging a path towards you, I have to borrow your essence, your image, and invent you afresh. Differently; in my own way. The way I saw you, the way I found and lost you. I have to invent you, Brilka, until one day you become real again. You, Brilka, came into the world and your name, Anastasia Jashi, was entered into the birth register, and you brought us all something like happiness for the first time in a long while, something we had almost forgotten existed. ‘Jashi. Full stop. Anastasia is going to be a Jashi.’ Daria, married or not, remained adamant. ‘The name was good enough for the two of us, after all.’
Jashi, then. Anastasia Jashi. But Daria didn’t want it shortened to Stasia. ‘It’s so Russian. Ani, maybe?’ She was not to be called Ani. Brilka would give herself her own name. A name as wayward and unique as she herself was wayward and unique. But for the time being she was tiny, with a mass of black hair. Her eyes, too, were black on black, and her skin was shrivelled and wrinkled, as if she had been born with a hundred years of wisdom. She didn’t cry; she was impressively calm and looked intently at the world and the people in it with her piercing black-black eyes, as if she had already seen through us all.
I wanted to look at her constantly, wanted her to see through me. I wanted to lay her on my stomach, to feel her warmth. I was an aunt. I was her aun
t. This tiny creature gave me a function. Gave me a purpose. I could leave the bed and the room I had barricaded myself into for weeks.
Sokhumi fell in December. The end of the war was proclaimed, but in our bodies and heads it continued. We still felt the emptiness that the last few years had excavated inside us with huge shovels. Only the sea remained unscathed, lapping in its usual rhythm against the pebbles and the dark sand.
*
‘I can’t stand this any longer. You’re as mute as a fish with me. I don’t know what you’re thinking any more. Sometimes I even wonder whether I still know you at all. You don’t answer the phone when I call, you’re absent, and when you do condescend to come out somewhere with me you stare into space. You don’t even want to read any more. I really don’t know what’s wrong with you. And I don’t want our only connection to be this bed. These little visits you make here. You come, you get into bed with me, we sleep together, then we have a cup of tea, smoke a cigarette, and I walk you to your car. And then you’re gone. As if we were having a secret affair. What are these doubts you’re plagued by? Is it still because of David? Is it your family problems? But the guy’s gone now, isn’t he? Your sister split up with him. Things can only get better. Come on, talk to me. And your eyes, the way you look at me. I’m going crazy. Seriously. You’re always assessing me somehow. You’re putting me through these secret tests I know nothing about. Tests I can’t even consciously take.’
The Eighth Life Page 102