If Dautzenbacher hadn’t barged his way in, the scene as staged could have come to quite a different end. A nasty end. Ninoshvili, listening intently, raises one finger. The militiaman parts his hands, which he’s been holding clasped together behind his back, and juts his chin. A shrill scream comes from the room next door, my room. It is Matassi’s cry for help. Ninoshvili kicks back his chair, races out of the room, hammers at the door of my room. It opens; Matassi appears in the doorway.
Her blouse and bra are torn, she clutches the rags together, pressing them to her bare breasts as she sinks back against the wall. Her other half asks her a question in Russian or Georgian, she replies in a faint voice. I don’t understand a word of it.
Ninoshvili slowly approaches, stops in front of me. Balancing on one leg, I struggle with my trousers: one foot is tangled up in them.
The Georgian looks at me, asks tonelessly, as if he can’t believe something so outrageous, “Is this true, my friend? You tried to rape her?”
I cry, “No! If she says that, she’s lying!”
The burly figure of the militiaman appears in the doorway; the door is still open. After a glance at Matassi he scrutinizes me, adjusts his belt and says something in a sharp tone, more of an accusation than a question. Ninoshvili turns back, speaks to the militiaman, pushes him out into the corridor and closes the door. Then, his footsteps dragging, he goes over to the armchair, drops heavily into it, looks at me almost without interest as I do up my trousers.
“This is a bad business, my friend. Very bad. You can think yourself lucky I arrived in time.” He shakes his head. “But I don’t know what will come of it now.”
He looks at Matassi, who is still leaning against the wall, her eyes cast down. Before I can work out what to say without digging myself even deeper into the hole I’m in, Ninoshvili stands up. He wraps his jacket round Matassi and leads her out.
He comes back in the evening, on his own. He accepts a glass of my bourbon, walks up and down the room with it, stops by the window now and then and peers down at the street, while I sit on the bed, feeling numb.
He’s been out and about all afternoon, says my Georgian friend, he’s done his level best to avert a scandal. But the militiaman—who by some unfortunate chance happened to be coming along the hotel corridor—has reported the incident, there’ll be police inquiries, and they could take a long time. The authorities won’t let me leave the country. They have made it very clear to him that they are, after all, ready to let me go only on one condition.
He sips his bourbon, turns away from me, and continues with some hesitation, peering out through the net curtain. It would be a two-way deal, he says, a deal of a kind that, very sad to say, is not unusual in the Soviet Union. And this shameful practice is also now the standard in Georgia, once a free republic fit for human beings to live in. To tell me the bitter truth plainly: the authorities will waive prosecution and allow me to leave if—and here he takes a deep breath—if I declare myself ready to supply them with information now and then, once I am back in the Federal Republic of Germany. Nothing world-shaking, nothing that could really be called espionage. But the authorities, he says, are pathologically obsessed with gathering information of every kind.
When I try to protest, my voice shakes pitifully. I manage to say that I didn’t offer Matassi any violence. I was caressing her, yes, I can’t and won’t deny that, and I’m extremely sorry to have forgotten myself so thoughtlessly. But there was no question of rape, not even an attempt at such a crime. I can explain the state of Matassi’s clothing only by supposing that she herself—perhaps overreacting in panic—had torn her own blouse and bra before she opened the door.
Ninoshvili shakes his head, as if in sorrowful regret. “I believe you, my friend. And Matassi wouldn’t want to get you into trouble either. But the militiaman has given a different account. And the authorities won’t believe either me or you, they’ll believe that overzealous police officer.”
He has brought with him a written statement, prepared by the authorities, of my willingness to work for the promotion of world peace. He takes it out of his breast pocket and hands it to me with a regretful expression. I have only to sign this paper, he says, and then I’m at liberty to travel on.
Chapter 4
Julia and Ralf take it even worse than I’d feared when I tell them, at supper, about Ninoshvili’s forthcoming visit. My lout of a son throws his fork down on his plate, frowns and leans forwards. “Where did you say this guy comes from? Georgia? Hey, look, they’re cutting each other’s throats there at this very moment, right? Is he going to apply for political asylum here or something?”
I ask him, raising my voice, kindly to spare me his idées fixes. When, I say, is he finally going to get it into his head that foreigners usually have far better things to do than to exploit our German fatherland? David Ninoshvili is an educated man, highly regarded in his own country, and he’s coming on behalf of the Georgian Ministry of Culture.
While my wife eats in silence and looks at her plate, that oaf Ralf stuffs his mouth with food, chews and grins. He breathes heavily out through his nose. “Ministry of Culture, ho ho, what a hoot! What sort of culture do those Georgians have? All of them running around with knives between their teeth. Or anyway with Kalashnikovs.” He clenches his right fist, aims his outstretched forefinger at me. “Bang, bang, bang!”
I lose my temper. I throw my napkin down on the table. “Are you actually proud of your ignorance? Your total lack of historical knowledge? People were living in towns in the Caucasus when your ancient Germanic ancestors were still squatting behind bushes gnawing bear bones!”
“Yes, teacher, sir!” He puts his fork down, wipes his mouth, pushes his chair back and gets up. “Just could be I know more about the Caucasus than you, though.” He leans over the table. “So can you tell me what happened on Mount Elbrus fifty-one years ago?”
I stare at him. He grins. “Twenty-one mountaineering infantrymen planted the German fag there, that’s what. And it would still be flying on the mountain peak if Army Group A hadn’t run out of petrol.”
“Oh, get out of here!” I shout.
“Okay, I was going anyway.” He slouches casually towards the door on his air-cushioned rubber soles. “I’m off to get some fresh air before that Georgian wop turns up.”
I’ve put up with the way Ralf carries on for too long. The hopeful idea that he might turn out better than the recalcitrant little bastards who do their best to pollute my lessons every day was an illusion. I expected to see him develop into an enlightened human being of his own accord, but I was wrong. I ought to have revised my educational principles ahead of time. Corporal punishment for good reasons, a few sound slaps now and then—that might have worked wonders. But it’s too late for that now, never mind the fact that by this time he’s probably physically stronger than me, and wouldn’t hesitate to dislocate his own father’s arm if I raised it to chastise him.
And I ought to have turned my attention to young Herr Schumann earlier: Gero Schumann, in whose summer house my son and his friends hang out, leading their own lives and pouring beer down their throats. Unfortunately I was depending on Julia. Herr Schumann did his probationary period as a qualified trainee in the legal practice where she works, and ended up with glowing reports: an affable, highly intelligent man who’d make his way in the world as a lawyer. Nice manners, well-to-do family—the summer house belongs to his grandmother, who owns a number of properties.
Herr Schumann has now successfully stood as a candidate for the city council, on which he sits representing a party of the far right. And my son and his friends put up his election posters and distributed unspeakably idiotic leaflets. Against xenophobia—but against foreign domination too! Foreigners yes, freeloaders no! For a confident, independent Germany!
I have always assumed that my wife finds this inflated babble as abhorrent as I do, despite her constant attempts to calm my anger: now don’t get worked up, it will all work out, he’s at
the awkward age, just suppose he’d taken to drugs, to be honest I’d rather have him spouting this silly stuff, he’ll get tired of it some time… and so on and so forth. Ah, the maternal instinct: come what may, the mother will love her black sheep.
After this evening, however, I doubt this explanation of her attempts to mediate. Once our son has stormed out uttering deplorable invective of some kind, I look at her, breathing heavily. Julia does not return my glance. In silence, she finishes eating her supper. I ask her, “Did you have no contribution to make to that conversation?”
She shrugs her shoulders, shakes her head. “Oh, you know how he reacts to these subjects. Arguments make him even angrier. He’ll calm down.”
I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Who will calm down? I suppose we’re talking about that lout’s state of mind, not by any chance mine? My tone becomes a little sharp. “The subject was not the question of political asylum, but a visit from a man who’s a friend of mine.” (A friend of mine—oh, God.)
“You’re right, his behaviour really is impossible.” She folds her napkin. A few seconds pass, then she comes out with the question her son would already have asked if he hadn’t preferred to make a dramatic and ill-mannered exit. “How long is this man going to stay?”
I don’t know, damn it. There’s no indication in his letter. And I can understand that. He’s not to know how long it will take him to get people over here interested in publishing Georgian literature. (I hope at least he knows where to go to find such people.)
She looks up from her napkin. “You haven’t forgotten that Erika wanted to visit us at the end of this month, have you?”
“Erika?”
“That’s right, Erika. I told you some time ago.”
She didn’t, but never mind; I could have guessed that her school friend from Halle was feeling tired of her dreary home town yet again. When did she last visit us? In spring, that’s not even six months ago. Sometimes I still feel bothered by the way that heavy perfume of hers hangs around, but of course that’s not Erika’s problem. No doubt she’s already shifting about restlessly on her curvaceous behind, longing for all the distractions the West can offer.
I try to control my tone of voice.
“Well,” I say, “it’s perfectly possible that Herr Ninoshvili will be on his way home before the end of the month. If he does want to stay any longer, or if he has to stay any longer, which I don’t anticipate, then just for once maybe it wouldn’t be too much to expect Erika to go to a hotel.”
The answer comes promptly and baldly, nothing to soften it. “That’s not how I see it. Why can’t Herr Ninoshvili be expected to get a hotel room?”
“Because he’s sure to be short of cash.”
“So is Erika.”
“You’re overlooking one considerable difference.” I pause for a moment while she looks at me, her eyes flashing. “Erika is travelling for her own pleasure. Herr Ninoshvili, on the other hand, is making this journey on behalf of a cultural project of some considerable importance. And also, not least, to earn his living.”
She nods, smiles wryly as if my comparison had shown me up in some way and was also an insult to her old school friend. “I’m afraid you have overlooked another considerable difference.”
“Which is?”
She hesitates, but not for long. “Ralf did have a point. This man comes from a country engaged in bloodthirsty civil war. Do you know which party he belongs to, and what he may have done in this war? You can’t be sure he’s not getting out of the country to escape retribution. And you say yourself that he doesn’t have any money. So how do you know he won’t want to take refuge with us? And then, once we’ve taken him in, he might hang around for months and months.”
I say, “You’re describing the situation of a political refugee. The classic case of a human being with a right to claim asylum.”
She shrugs. “Call it what you like. As you know, I’ve often enough supported the principle that such people should have their rights. But does it really have to be at your own family’s expense?” She leaves the dining table and goes to her study.
I clear away the dishes and take them to the kitchen. A cup slips out of my hand and breaks on the stone floor. I tread on the broken pieces, and they fly all over the place.
I’ll show those two what a guest means and how civilized people treat their guests! Yes, yes, perhaps Ninoshvili is in fact coming because he can’t stay in his own country and hopes to begin another life here, build up a new future. Then let him stay in our house, damn it, until he’s found his footing. If necessary I’ll celebrate Christmas and see the New Year in with him.
I don’t suppose he’ll be planning to stay until Easter.
Chapter 5
I should add here that seven years ago Julia’s legal practice was defending a qualified engineer from the Federal Office of Defence Technology and Procurement who was an alcoholic, and had let himself be recruited by the KGB. The case for the defence was rejected, and the provincial Supreme Court sentenced the man to three years behind bars, as far as I remember, for giving away a few ridiculous state secrets for an equally ridiculous sum that didn’t even cover the delinquent’s bills for spirits.
I hadn’t known anything about this client of my wife’s when I set out on my trip to the Soviet Union. It was only after my return that Julia happened to mention casually what a lot of work the case was making for her. It was a mild autumn evening, and we were sitting on the terrace watching twilight fall slowly over the garden. Julia had said she must go back to her desk, but she obviously didn’t want to, and was trying to postpone the moment by telling me about all the trouble she was having with the unfortunate procurement technician.
When she had finally gone in I mopped the sweat from my brow. Luckily she didn’t seem to have noticed my uneasiness. I’d almost forgotten my nightmares about Ninoshvili and Matassi—with some difficulty, but successfully in the end—by calling on sound human reason. After all, if the couple were really working to entrap people, why would they want to lure an ordinary secondary-school teacher of German and history into their clutches? Any information I could have given the KGB about Germany would have centred on my experiences with pupils who liked to waste time behaving like pigs, and teachers who suffered from having to be their swineherds, and that would hardly have been of any material interest.
But now my fantasies began running wild again, preying on my mind: suppose the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Besopasnosti, the Soviet secret service, had been trying to gain access to the Federal Office of Defence Technology and Procurement through schoolteacher Christian Kestner and his lawyer wife Dr Julia Kestner? Maybe they hoped, by those means, to get an insight into top-secret documents from which they could discover how many screws held the Leopard tank together, or which of the civil servants employed by the Defence Office was as notorious a drunk as the qualified engineer Julia was defending, or how many bucketfuls of jam a division of the Federal Armed Forces consumed on average per month.
Enough of this foolishness. I will also add that over the last few years Julia and her firm have defended several clients working in those fields that are absurdly described as “sensitive”, (as if making your living by dealing with armaments and their accessories calls for profound sensitivity). But this participation by my wife in the affairs of state of the Federal German Republic doesn’t really constitute reasonable grounds for me to feel as if I ought to anticipate Ninoshvili’s visit with misgivings.
Even if the Georgian and his wife were trying to get me into the clutches of the Soviet secret service, the Soviet Union as such no longer exists. And the Republic of Georgia certainly has weightier matters on its mind than blackmailing Christian Kestner, senior schoolteacher, by holding over him a crime that he would have liked to commit but, thanks to Karl-Heinz Dautzenbacher, never did.
Chapter 6
In the morning twilight they looked to the east, and halfway between the sea and the sky they saw snow-crowned peaks rising a
bove the clouds, bright and glittering. And they knew that they had reached the Caucasus, at the ends of the inhabited earth. The Caucasus, the highest of all mountain ranges, father of the rivers of the east. Prometheus was once chained to its summit, for the eagle to gnaw his liver day after day, and at the foot of its slopes whispered the dark forests around the magical land of Colchis.
That is vividly written, although sad to say by an Englishman, not a Georgian. I’m acquainting myself with Georgian literature a little in order to do my guest justice, but I’m not getting on very well with it. Hardly any modern texts exist in German translation, and the older works I’ve found in libraries have a musty odour of the past about them that sometimes puts me off. Or makes me yawn, to confess the truth (and I do want to stick to the truth here).
The Georgians must be strange people if it’s true that every other man and woman among them can quote from Shota Rustaveli’s The Man in the Panther’s Skin, and quote from it with feeling. Yet this “book of books of an entire nation”, of which I knew nothing before, is almost eight hundred years old, and its venerable metaphors would never trip off anyone’s tongue in this country today. What does a Georgian feel when he declaims lines claiming that Queen Tamar had “the countenance of a rose”, “crimson lips” and “teeth like polished crystal” set between rubies?
I also have to ask myself why I feel considerably greater interest in Rustaveli’s account of the lovelorn Patman, who falls for the wrong man and afterwards complains, “Unlucky that I am, I was no more than the female goat to his buck.”
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