*
‘I knew you’d come back,’ Giorgi Alania said as he opened the door to me.
‘Tell me everything, everything you remember, everything about you and my family. If you don’t object, I’ll leave this Dictaphone running.’
That was how I greeted him.
He did as I asked. And I stayed with him for over a week.
After that, I went to London and arranged to meet Amy in a retirement home in Notting Hill. Alania had put us in touch.
She came with me to the office of Kitty’s foundation. I outlined my request to her and to the foundation’s employees. With Alania’s and Amy’s help, and of course because Brilka was one of Kitty Jashi’s few living relatives, I quickly got an agreement. The legal issues were cleared up, and the contracts were handed over: from now on, Brilka Jashi was permitted to use all of Kitty Jashi’s songs in dance performances and choreography, and also had the exclusive rights to do this.
Then I travelled to Vienna, rented a little room, and began to write. When my money ran out, I sought out the places where people played poker. I stayed in Vienna for a few months, then packed my things and flew to St Petersburg. There too, I rented a room. I wrote and played.
Nobody knew where I was. I never called anyone, never gave out my address, formed no close ties, and went only to those places relevant to the story I had to tell.
I didn’t contact Brilka, either.
From St Petersburg, I took the train to Moscow, and continued the story on the eighth floor of a dilapidated high-rise. Giorgi Alania proved a great help with my research in Moscow, too. He put me in touch with former colleagues and friends, who filled in the gaps, helped me search for my answers, opened up their archives to me.
From Moscow it was back to Berlin, where I met the Eastern Europe specialist, told him about my project, and asked him to give me access to his personal archive. He agreed.
Then I went to Prague. From Prague, I flew back to Moscow. And from Moscow back to London.
My journey took a little over a year. For a year I thought about Brilka every day. For a year I talked with her incessantly in my mind. For a year I wrote day and night and lived through the words and out of my suitcase, splitting these days and nights between the poker table and the writing table, swapping one unfamiliar room for another. Gradually a kind of peace settled over me. As I wrote, I was forced to discover how to feel again. Like people who learn to walk or talk again after a serious accident.
A little over a year after crossing the Georgian border with Brilka, I finished my book. Brilka’s book. Just before I travelled back to Berlin with the finished manuscript in my hand, the news of Alania’s death reached me. Amy had written me a letter. His last wish was to be cremated. His ashes were to be given over to the wind, in the bay where Kitty Jashi had swum out, never to return. I travelled to the Seven Sisters. There, standing on the beach between the cliffs, for the first time in years I felt something like confidence.
*
I went to the Berlin jazz club where The Barons still performed. I listened to their jam session with closed eyes. In the dim stage lights, Aman’s cheeks looked less sunken than they had before, and his eyes, too, seemed to have stopped their aimless roaming.
After his performance, I caught up with him at the back door; I knew his habits. As he stepped out and put a cigarette in his mouth, I held a lighter to it.
‘I’ll be back soon,’ I said.
‘What do you mean, you’ll be back soon? You’re standing right in front of me.’
‘I’m leaving again in three days, but after that I’ll be back, to stay.’
‘You’re looking good, Niza.’
‘I’m feeling good. You’re looking good, too. So tell me, is it serious?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, your shirt and your eau de Cologne … There’s somebody behind that. So, is it serious? Hey, come on, I didn’t expect you to stay faithful to me.’
‘Is that important to you, then — if it’s serious?’
‘You never answered my email.’
‘And you never answered me.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I didn’t answer you. But I haven’t answered anyone.’
‘I’m pleased to see you,’ he murmured, putting an arm around me.
I pressed my head against his chin, and we stayed like that for a while.
‘I still owe you an answer. Come and visit me when I’m back.’
I wrote my new address in Friedrichshain on his cigarette packet and gave it back to him. He took it hesitantly. Suddenly, he burst out laughing and shook his head.
‘Yes, there’s a lot you still owe me.’
‘I always pay my debts.’
I smiled at him and began walking backwards, away from him.
‘Hey, where are you off to?’
‘I told you, I’ll be back.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
‘I know that “soon”; last time it was over a year. I might be gone by then …’
‘Well, I’ll probably have to take that risk this time as well.’
2007
I arrived in Tbilisi at dawn on 7 November. Brilka had turned fourteen two days earlier. I took a taxi to the Green House. No one was expecting me; no one knew I was coming. I went up the steps to the house and sat on the veranda. It was still cold, but I didn’t mind. I waited for the house and its occupants to wake up, watching the gloomy November day slowly get lighter.
Shortly after eight, I heard Elene’s footsteps inside and knocked. She cried out when she saw me, then threw her arms round my neck and called out to Aleko. I hardly dared ask after Brilka, but Elene soon told me she was staying with Lasha’s parents as it was expected to snow. She had to stay there during the week because of the long journey to school. (‘Oh my goodness, she’ll go crazy when she finds out you’re here. She talks about you a lot, Niza. She’s so tall now, you won’t believe it. But as precocious and cheeky as ever!’) As Elene made coffee and I cuddled up to Aleko, she asked where I had been all this time, and why I hadn’t been in touch. Had I buried myself in my work again?
‘Yes, but this time it was a different sort of work. I’ll drive into town in a bit and pick Brilka up from school. Is the car still roadworthy?’
‘Yes, it’s still holding out. I fixed it up myself,’ said Aleko, whose beard was now snow-white.
‘You need to take care in the city, Niza, the elections are coming up and there are demonstrations every day, all over the city,’ Elene said, interrupting him.
‘Demonstrations? Against what?’
‘Against the government, the president, who do you think?’ Elene rolled her eyes at my apparently stupid question.
‘Really? I thought he was the great white hope …’
‘Yes, that’s what we all thought. Only there’s no effective opposition in this country any more. Unemployment hasn’t fallen one bit. Yes, there were reforms and restructuring, but the money keeps on flowing into the pockets of individuals — it makes you wonder who it was all for. This country still isn’t at peace, Niziko!’
‘I’m just going to drive into town, pick her up, and come back here. I don’t intend to go to the demonstration.’
‘There’s going to be a big police presence. They’re worried it might escalate.’
‘Everything was still very quiet on the way here. I got through fine,’ I objected.
‘People are still sleeping. You know as well as I do: in this country people need a lie-in before they start a revolution. We don’t do demonstrations or coups without a good night’s sleep,’ Aleko remarked, putting an arm round my shoulders.
We drank Elene’s strong coffee. I listened to Aleko voice his dissatisfaction with the state, the president, the authoritarian leadership, and Georgia’s tragic inability to take the ri
ght path, then I got in my car, the car Brilka and I had crossed the continent in. I drove along the winding roads back into the city, to Brilka’s school. When I got there, I went straight in and looked for her classroom. The teacher told me she hadn’t shown up for lessons that day. And her absences were becoming more frequent.
I left the school and drove to Lasha’s parents’ house in Didube.
The two old doctors offered me coffee and cake. Time had stood still in their apartment. You could see that their pension didn’t stretch nearly far enough for their needs. In a long, narrow room I discovered traces of Brilka: yellow bedsheets, a few posters of dancers on the walls, some of Kitty’s old records, and three pairs of headphones. My heart started pounding. But she herself wasn’t there. She had set off for school with her satchel on her back as usual. I phoned the Green House and asked about her friends, the address of her dance school, anywhere she might be hanging out and killing time. I spent the whole day looking for her and calling phone numbers Elene had given me. Nobody knew anything; most seemed not to have a very close relationship with her.
Aleko came into town in a neighbour’s car. On the phone he had suggested quietly — not wanting Elene to overhear — that Brilka might have gone to the demonstration. That would be just like her, he said, to go despite all his warnings. There were two big protest marches that day; I should go to one, and he would look for her at the other. I should go to Rustaveli Boulevard, he said: the first demonstration was due to take place outside the parliament building. He would go to Heroes Square, to the state broadcaster’s main building.
Once again, time stood still for me. Once again, I had to go back — but this time, it was in order to move forward.
The streets were starting to fill up. I could hear sirens, and police vehicles raced by at a rate of one a minute. Once again, I saw the crowd of people, marching with placards and banners and chanting slogans. I heard them roaring. And I was stuck in a traffic jam. I swore. My concern for Brilka was overwhelming. I managed to park the car in a side street, got out, and continued on foot.
I marched towards Rustaveli Boulevard, to the parliament building and my former school. Once again I was walking there alone. Police officers and security personnel were moving among the crowd in ever greater numbers. I saw their batons dangling against their legs. I saw the rubber coshes in their hands, and the tear-gas masks on their belts. It started to rain. Someone yelled that the police had stormed the broadcaster that favoured the opposition and had chased the journalists out with batons. The crowd started running like wild animals. I began to move faster, keeping a lookout for Brilka, calling her name. I dived into the crowd, surfaced again, tore myself away, let them push me back. I had to find her. Nothing else mattered.
*
I searched for you with all my senses, Brilka. With all my senses I wanted to find you. Because I had come back and I had your songs with me and I had written your book.
I didn’t know whether you would be ready for all these stories at your young age — that was something I asked myself so often that year — but I had no choice: I had to be as mercilessly honest with you as you had been with me. I know, Brilka, that anything else would have been unforgivable. I made that demand of you. You shouldn’t have to be afraid any more, not of thunder and lightning or of accidents or of death. I wrote for you, and against the curse. I tried to clear your way of all stumbling blocks and traps. You will stumble anyway, you will fall, but I will be there, I will help as best I can, to get you back on your feet. I will be there from now on, for the rest of my life. That is the only promise I can give to anyone. And I’m giving it to you.
I rushed to you, Brilka. I didn’t know where you were, but I sensed you would be close by, and tear gas, coshes, and guns could not stop me searching for you.
I knew I would find you, Brilka. I owed you the question: do you want to come with me, to Vienna, to Berlin, it doesn’t matter where, the important thing is with me. Do you still need my help? Do you still want to dance through life, telling the story of another life? I’m here to ask you if you can forgive me for not wanting or being able to offer you a home before, when you needed it most.
I couldn’t keep you with me, I failed, I led you to a false goal. I couldn’t gather up your loneliness, couldn’t give you the confidence that you would find what you were looking for. I didn’t tell you that, to me, you’re the most special girl in the world.
Yes, Brilka, I searched for you in order to say all this, to ask all this.
I owe these lines to a century that cheated and deceived everyone, all those who hoped. I owe these lines to an enduring betrayal that settled over my family like a curse. I owe these lines to my sister, whom I could never forgive for flying away that night without wings; to my grandfather, whose heart my sister tore out; to my great-grandmother, who danced a pas de deux with me at the age of eighty-three; to my mother, who went off in search of God … I owe these lines to Miro, who infected me with love as if it were poison; I owe these lines to my father, whom I never really got to know; I owe these lines to a chocolate-maker and a White-Red Lieutenant; to a prison cell; to an operating table in the middle of a classroom; to a book I would never have written, if … I owe these lines to an infinite number of fallen tears; I owe these lines to myself, a woman who left home to find herself and gradually lost herself instead; but, above all, I owe these lines to you, Brilka.
I owe them to you because you deserve the eighth life. Because they say the number eight represents infinity, constant recurrence. I am giving my eight to you.
A century connects us. A red century. Forever and eight. Your turn, Brilka. I’ve adopted your heart. I’ve cast mine away. Accept my eight.
*
Screams around me. I saw policemen pouncing on a shouting demonstrator. I could already smell the tear gas, and again I found myself outside my old school. Again I saw blood spraying, a young man sinking to the ground, and black-hooded, armed men leaping on him. But my eyes didn’t retain the image; they were looking out for you alone, and no one else.
And suddenly I stopped in my tracks. I recalled the joke, the joke that wasn’t really a joke, which Christine told me on the day I saw her alive for the last time, eighteen years ago. I promised I would tell it to you, when the time came. The time has come.
Dante is walking through Purgatory. Criminals and violent men are burning in agony on a mighty bonfire; some are drowning in a sea of blood. In the distance, Dante sees a man who is only up to his knees in blood. He approaches, recognises Lavrenti Beria, and asks him: ‘Why is it so shallow where you are, Lavrenti?’ And Beria replies with a malicious grin: ‘I’m standing on the shoulders of Joseph Stalin, sir!’ And even though the joke really wasn’t a joke, Brilka, at that moment I couldn’t help but laugh at it. All those years ago, when I was standing with one leg inside the school building, trying to hold on to Christine, I couldn’t laugh at it. But now I did.
*
I stood there, laughing like a crazy person, just as hysterically as Christine had laughed at it back then; because I also felt, as she had done, the decades being churned together. I saw Christine run past me without her veil; I saw Kostya waving to me in the distance; I even saw The Shark, proudly cleaning his gun and preparing to go to war, a war that was not won, ever, anywhere. I saw Kitty standing on Wenceslas Square in Prague and heard her singing. I saw my great-grandmother dance. I saw Miro’s scabby knees in short trousers on a deserted playground. I saw myself running down the slope towards the Green House. In this crowd of people, I saw a flash of Thekla’s dressing gown and heard Sopio Eristavi’s footsteps behind me. I thought I saw Ramas ahead of me, in the midst of the yelling throng; Giorgi Alania must be here, too, maybe Ida as well, Mariam certainly, and I thought I smelled the aroma of hot chocolate, but this time I knew that it would fail to have its supposedly sinister effect. For I had found the antidote to the magic formula: you, Brilka. And I was sur
e that you too would find your own antidote that would render all curses harmless. I thought I could feel one of Andro Eristavi’s wooden angels in my coat pocket. I heard Miqa Eristavi running after the crowd. Yes, I was sure Daria was here, too. Here, somewhere nearby.
I had left Rustaveli Boulevard behind and was standing on Freedom Square, where the statue of Lenin had once stood and where St George was now displayed atop a pillar. The crowd filled the square, pushing like an unstoppable current in every direction.
I didn’t stop. I was looking for you.
*
And when I reached the city hall, there, in the corner, I finally saw you, too, Brilka. I saw you standing there motionless, watching the crowd, as if you were viewing a fantastic film. Finally, I saw you, Brilka, and I called out to you through the crowd. It didn’t matter whether you could hear me or not; I had found you and I would manage to forge a path through the last few metres to you.
Eighteen years previously, I had hidden, in a school, trembling, filled with fear and hopelessness — but you, Brilka, stood there calmly, watching it all with your black-on-black eyes. You knew you would stand firm, you wouldn’t fall, you would continue unwaveringly along your path, however the tide might turn or the wind might blow. And I knew in that moment, more surely than ever, that you are the miracle child. You are. Break through heaven and chaos, break through us all, break through these lines, break through the ghost world and the real world, break through the inversion of love, of faith, shorten the centimetres that always separated us from happiness, break through the destiny that never was.
Break through me and you.
Live through all wars. Cross all borders. To you I dedicate all gods and all rosaries, all burnings, all decapitated hopes, all stories. Break through them. Because you have the means to do it, Brilka. The eight — remember it. All of us will always be interwoven in this number and will always be able to listen to each other, down through the centuries.
The Eighth Life Page 114