It was a long time before she came out with it: she had heard from Lasha’s parents that his ex-wife had rented them an apartment, moved Lasha in, and arranged a carer to look after him. Her father, who worked at the Ministry for Energy and Infrastructure, could afford to support his daughter financially. And, she added, still staring fixedly into the distance, Lasha had asked for a divorce. The ex-wife didn’t want to remain an ex-wife for very much longer.
That same evening, Daria vanished from the house while we were all sleeping, and the next morning I had an indignant ex-wife on the phone. She told me to kindly come and collect my drunken tramp of a sister. Daria had turned up in the middle of the night outside the new flat she shared with Lasha (she didn’t forget to mention this piece of news) and woken all the neighbours, shouting his name all over the courtyard. When she had found the right staircase, she had hammered incessantly on the door and shouted for him. She had whined that she loved him and that she’d made a mistake. She had pulled up her jumper and screamed that Lasha should take a look at what he was missing. At this I had to press my hand to my lips to suppress an urge to vomit. It tore me apart inside. Something in me exploded. I didn’t know if it was the humiliation that Daria had brought on me with her senseless, absurd behaviour, or my own powerlessness to do anything about it, to heal her.
Over the weeks that followed, I had to collect my sister from a lot of different apartments. I got to know the farthest-flung corners of the city, the suburbs and the surrounding countryside. Most frequently, though, I found her in the sculptors’ studio in the new town. That was the most constant and significant den of her rebellion. By this time, I knew most of the people there: would-be artists, former Mkhedrioni, heroin addicts, peaceful students who had sold or pawned all their possessions and now owned nothing, wanted nothing, were capable of nothing except killing time with a few others who shared their fate. The parties seemed to provide the only confirmation that they were still alive.
Elene was shrivelling up with worry, losing weight, and looking like a shadow of her former self; when she wasn’t delivering cakes and giving private tuition, she tore herself apart for Daria. She kept taking her to see doctors and herbal healers; she even brought a clairvoyant to the apartment. Daria dutifully submitted to examinations and talked to a therapist — then slipped out of the house at night.
Only now and then, when she held her daughter in her arms and whispered to her, did my sister’s mood lighten a little. When she saw her laughing, or fed her with a little red plastic spoon. That gave me hope — some assurance that the state she was in wasn’t permanent, that it would soon be over. At moments like these, I believed that Daria could be herself again. Full of playful frivolity, full of verve, full of trust.
But these moments vanished as quickly and unexpectedly as they arrived. Elene and I were both forced to confess that we couldn’t pin her down, and we decided to change tactics. I took it upon myself to win back Daria’s trust by going to parties and getting drunk as well. If I went everywhere with her, I would be better able to keep an eye on her and prevent any further disasters.
This was the time when our mother’s yearning for God was reignited. Forced to admit to herself that she had failed and was powerless where Daria was concerned, she was in such despair that there was nothing a doctor or herbalist could do to help. Only something greater could steady her. Yes, God had to come back. First, she started fasting, which to me seemed an extraordinary provocation in view of the food shortages at that time. Then I found her with her nose buried in the Bible. Then people kept telling me she was at church. The living room wall gradually became an icon shrine. If no human being was capable of helping her and her daughter, then maybe God would do it.
And the time seemed to be ripe for it, as well: the Orthodox Church and its elders gained a tremendous following in that period. Seventy years of persistent repression and persecution was made up for ten times over: crowds flocked to the churches, old and new. More and more people were putting up icons at home; more and more unemployed ex-soldiers and Mkhedrioni found their new calling, put on black cassocks, and started to preach. Neither Aleko, who seemed dismayed by his wife’s newfound piety, nor the committed atheist and communist Kostya, could do anything about it.
*
It was March or April, I can’t remember exactly, when Miro came to the studios for the first time. He had just bought himself an old Honda and was proud of his new purchase. Work seemed to be bolstering his self-esteem, which had been chipped away over the years. He was earning money, he was respected, he was making plans and was already starting to look like a little patriarch. Even the style of his clothes had changed. He was seeing less and less of his old friends from go-karting days, and more and more well-dressed young men I didn’t know, every one of whom smacked of business.
On the phone he had told me that he’d just been paid and wanted to take me out to the Metekhi Hotel’s chic restaurant. I told him he would do better not to throw away his hard-earned money, but inwardly I was glad because he sounded light and cheerful. A terrible longing for him took hold of me. So we arranged to meet that evening. Later, though, Elene called and asked me to bring my sister home. That morning Daria had thrown a tantrum, smashing crockery in front of her and Aleko, and had then vanished. I swore and cursed her. I didn’t want to let Daria’s moods spoil my lovely, quiet evening with Miro. But Elene begged me, and I gave in.
In the car, I explained the situation to Miro and asked him to help me get Daria back to Elene’s before we went ahead with our plans — even though I had no wish to take him to this accursed place. To my surprise, he agreed at once, adding that he had long been curious about where I was hanging out. He drove me to the studio. The party people were sitting round a long wooden table, eating soup that Daria had made. She was wearing an apron, her eyes sparkled, and her hair was pinned up with a pencil. That evening she was playing the role of perfect hostess, and I sensed immediately how happy it made her. She hugged me tightly and put an arm round Miro, introducing him to every one of her friends.
For a moment I cursed Elene and her panic. Daria seemed neither out of control nor aggressive. Quite the reverse: it was a long time since I had seen her looking so at ease. She was wearing a knee-length blue dress that made her pale eye glow, and she had even put on lipstick. She had herself under control; she was fine. I could allow myself a nice evening with Miro. I put my arm through his, said goodbye to everyone, and pulled him towards the exit. But he stayed where he was, whispering in my ear that it was nice here, and the people were all so welcoming and interesting. Daria was sure to be disappointed if we didn’t try her soup. I couldn’t understand it: I finally had a chance to leave this place, and now the person I spent most of my time longing for wanted to stay.
‘That’s a really stupid idea, Miro. Let’s get out of here!’
‘But why? I like it. Come on, we can go to the restaurant another time — come on, Niza. I think it would be rude to just up and leave now.’
Daria was already at his side; she took his hand and led him to the table. I had no choice but to accept the situation. Of all the things I could have imagined, the possibility of Miro feeling at home in this place had never even crossed my mind.
But when he took a seat at the table, started eating, quickly connected with the others, laughed easily, joked and played the charmer, the reason for his sudden sympathy with these people became clear to me. He missed his old friends. He missed the relaxed atmosphere of those days in Mziuri Park. Missed the lack of responsibility, how untroubled they had been, missed his rough, lively friends who, while they couldn’t talk about building projects, had plenty to say on the subjects of beautiful women and fast cars. He missed this carefree time, this intoxicating joy, and I decided to quickly curb my disappointment and relive the old days with him.
He kept pace with the drinking, told his jokes, amused the group, and enjoyed their unreserved attention
. Daria, too, was clearly taken with his easy manner and sat close to him. She had never really been interested in him before: he’d been too unremarkable for her in her glittering world. Songs were sung. People made silly toasts. I was happy to see the old Miro again. I laughed at his jokes, threw my arms round his neck, drank toasts to brotherhood, giggled and bantered with him and the other guests. It felt so good to forget everything, to relinquish control for once and just enjoy myself. I danced with Daria, with the boxer, with Miro. And in the early morning, when the three of us were in the back seat of a taxi riding through a city still half in darkness, I felt alive again for the first time in ages. I rested my head on Miro’s shoulder and held Daria’s hand tightly in mine.
*
Over the days that followed, Miro kept pestering me to take him to the studios again. I tried to explain to him that he had caught one of the better evenings there; it wasn’t usually that relaxed. More often than not the guests took things too far, and Daria certainly wasn’t always as docile and affectionate as she had been that evening. But he wouldn’t hear any of it. I kept coming up with excuses for why we couldn’t go, and for that reason I stayed away from the studios for a while myself. But he went back. Again and again. After a while, I didn’t even need to ask him what his plan for the evening was; the answer was clear. Sometimes I let him go to the studios alone; I stayed at the Green House and made tentative efforts to start writing again. I sat on the roof terrace. Dangled my legs over the drop. I watched Anastasia as she slept. I read, or stared at the stars. I tried to stop up the yawning emptiness inside me, with letters and words, sentences and stories. But that only worked for a little while — just until the next day began to dawn.
I missed David. I held conversations with him in my head. I followed the scent of chocolate into the kitchen and assisted Stasia and her arthritic fingers with the baking. I helped my mother take the cakes into the city. I said nothing, and on the drive into town I had to make a tremendous effort not to yell at her to shut up when she started talking again about the importance of faith and the church and the purifying power of fasting.
I dragged myself in to university. I just had to get through this last year. Just a few more months. I boycotted the lectures by the professor who had suggested I go to Abkhazia, not knowing that I would find my Abkhazia in a print works in the new town. At the studios, I pretended to be someone without a care in the world, let Miro kiss me and massage my shoulders, drank cheap vodka. Let the boxer and his friends talk me into dancing a drunken sirtaki.
Either the world was turning at double speed, or it had stopped turning altogether. I no longer knew or cared. There was nothing I was able to prevent, and nothing I was able to preserve. I wasn’t even able to control anything, except my car.
Miro changed. He let himself go. He neglected his work. He smashed his new car into a telegraph pole because he was always driving home drunk. He grabbed my hand and dragged me to the toilet with him, where he tugged at my clothes and kissed my neck. I had no strength to put up any resistance; I just let it happen. I had become indifferent to something I once loved so much.
*
April brought a heatwave to the city. The air became unbreathable. The exhaust fumes of cars — mostly western models outlawed in their home countries and sold on to the East — made it even worse. But the heatwave didn’t stop the party people from partying even harder. The music was turned up. The doors and windows were thrown open. The skirts and dresses got shorter. The consumption of alcohol and drugs more unrestrained. And I — I could feel my strength dwindling. My final exams were coming up in June, and I hadn’t lifted a finger for them. Essays that still had to be written were repeatedly put off. And the person whose shoulder I could have cried on had become a source of worry himself. I stopped intervening when people locked horns at the studios, paid no attention when someone collapsed in the toilet again, ignored the boxer lifting up my sister’s dress. Sat silently in a corner reading or withdrew to the bathroom when the noise level and the heat became unbearable, and put my hands over my ears until the worst was over.
And now, when I look back on those hot spring days, when I try — over and over — to reconstruct that one night, I can’t help thinking that I allowed things to reach that point. That in some cursed, vaguely intuitive way I foresaw it and didn’t want to stop it happening. Maybe inwardly I was almost hoping, longing for it. Maybe I was searching for a compelling reason to finally give up the role of chaperone. I couldn’t go and I couldn’t stay; I was caught between her laughter and her torment, which always began at daybreak. Between my no and her yes. Between my longing for something whole and her destructive drive. Caught between her addiction to burning herself out and my desire to hold her back. When I think about that night, I realise that I wanted to let go, that I deliberately walked into it. Yes, Brilka: I did.
*
I had been irritated all evening. I wanted to go home. I wanted to sleep. Instead, I was hanging around in this hellhole, occupied with anything but myself and my own problems. Luckily Miro wasn’t there that evening. One less thing to worry about, I thought, and decided that if I couldn’t get away I was going to drink. Daria and the others were playing Super Mario, the most exciting invention since the video recorder. I felt the bitter liquid burn my throat.
Eventually I tugged at Daria’s shirtsleeve and asked her to come home with me in the car. She waved me off, engrossed in her game. When she continued to ignore me, I found an empty bottle in the kitchen, filled it with cold water, and poured it over her head. Shocked, she leaped to her feet, yelled at me — what was I thinking, had I gone mad — and told me to get out. I didn’t know what else to do but grab Daria by the wrists and push her to the floor. Then I jumped on her, as I had so often when we were little, pinned her arms to the ground, and shouted in her face that she had to come with me right now.
The boxer grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me off my sister. I swore, flailed my arms, snarled at him; I was beside myself. Finally, he managed to throw me out of the studio and slammed the door in my face. I sat in the car, started the engine, switched it off again. I didn’t feel capable of driving. I got out again and started running. I didn’t know where I was running to, but I knew I didn’t want to stand still. I zigzagged around. Having raced for miles I sat down on a bench somewhere, dripping with sweat. It was already late; the metro had stopped running. It was eerie. I decided to go back and drive home: I was never going to get to Elene’s on foot. I was too exhausted.
It took maybe an hour to get back to the car. By this time, I had sobered up and regretted doing what I had done. I had to be sensible. Had to make another attempt to take Daria home.
When I got to my car, I was confused: Miro’s car was now parked outside the building as well. The door was open, and I got in without any trouble. Head held high, I marched past the boxer, ignored startled comments from a few female guests, and went looking for Daria. But she was nowhere to be seen. No trace of her. Or of Miro. I asked a drunk girl who was sitting in the kitchen, absentmindedly eating sunflower seeds, but she didn’t know where my sister was. I was about to go out again when I found a narrow door in the hallway. I wrenched it open. It was a staircase leading down to the cellar. I went down into the darkness, clinging on to the wall as I couldn’t find a light switch. I heard rustling, then a giggle. I recognised Daria’s voice, and peered curiously into the cramped cellar room.
I saw them standing in a corner. I squeezed my eyes shut in the hope that I had imagined it, but when I opened them again, I saw Daria with one arm round his neck, her fingers buried in his hair. His hands were all over her body. She looked composed, as if she were a stranger to passion, while he was obviously lost in the moment. I knew him so well. I knew exactly what he was feeling. He was kissing her in a way he had not kissed me for a long time.
I felt my knees go weak, and suddenly my mouth was filled with the bitterest taste I had ever known.
I didn’t realise it was the taste of betrayal. A soft whimper escaped my lips. Miro quickly let go of her and looked round. It made no sense to stay hidden; I took a step into the darkness of the room. Daria stayed where she was, motionless, looking me coldly straight in the eye, while Miro muttered something to himself and struck his forehead with the palm of his hand.
After what felt like an eternity, she said in a trembling, cracking voice, ‘And now? Now will you finally leave me in peace?’ Miro glanced at her uncertainly; he had no idea what was going on, he seemed to consist entirely of his own shame. He stared at the floor, then gathered all his courage and took a step towards me, but I motioned him to stop. Strangely, I felt sorry for him just then. All my anger was directed at her. I wished she had never existed, I wished I had never given her my love. I wished I had never followed her here. I wished I had never enabled her to do that film. I turned and ran up the stairs.
It was only the next morning, when I came into the kitchen and found Elene there, dissolved in tears, with Nana rocking her back and forth like a baby, that I discovered Lasha had died of an overdose the previous night. Daria had known it all along. Daria had known it when she was playing Super Mario; when I threw her to the floor; when she went down the cellar stairs with Miro.
*
Over the weeks that followed, I didn’t leave the Green House. When Miro phoned, he was told that I didn’t want to see him, and the one time he turned up on the driveway I asked Kostya to go out and let him know he wasn’t welcome. Elene and Aleko finally brought Daria home after two weeks of solid drinking. Locked her in. Elene stayed with us in the Green House and kept watch over her daughter. She fed her, banned all alcohol from the house, fetched a doctor who prescribed some kind of sedative.
Lasha’s death was the beginning of her end. And no matter how hard the others tried to hold on to her, she kept striding purposefully towards it. I knew it, I could see it, but I couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything more to stop her. If she managed to go a few days without alcohol, if she regained her appetite and paid attention to her daughter, a dramatic relapse would follow, as if pre-programmed. She stole money from Elene’s bag, slipped out to the only corner shop in the village, and bought vodka. When we made the corner shop owner swear not to sell her any more alcohol, she found a farmer who would give her home-brewed chacha.
The Eighth Life Page 104