Days in the Caucasus

by Banine

  ‘You mean you haven’t been to see him? When did you get back? Where are your bags?’

  ‘I got back an hour ago. I left the suitcases at the flat, but Selim wasn’t there. I came to see you before going to see my parents.’

  ‘That’s nice of you.’

  I was softening.

  ‘And I want to ask you something. I would rather go with you to see them. It’s a bore to go on my own. Do you want to come?’

  I lost my temper.

  ‘You’ve got some nerve. You take Andrey away from me—’

  ‘I took Andrey away from you? It’s you who let him go. I just seized the moment so we wouldn’t all lose out. I didn’t take your Andrey away.’

  ‘You took Andrey from me—’

  ‘I didn’t take him from you—’

  ‘You took him from me—’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘Damn it. All right, I took him from you (though that’s not true at all). So what?’

  ‘Well, that’s it.’

  ‘Well, now we’ve agreed I took Andrey away from you, what’s stopping you coming with me to see my parents? Go on, you know that deep down you’re my sister, that we’ve always lived like two sisters… You won’t refuse me this small favour?’

  I was sitting on the edge of the bed, frowning in indecision. Since Andrey had never loved her, the question had changed: Gulnar hadn’t really taken anything from me. She might even have increased his desire for me, if her presence had been a constant reminder.

  ‘Well?’ Gulnar asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I muttered.

  Then she had her arms round me again. ‘My dear little cousin! Don’t push me away—it hurts!’

  She had tears in her voice and, more convincingly, in her eyes.

  ‘Really I only love you and Mama! So forgive me if I have anything to be forgiven for. Lets go back to how we used to be—doing everything together! Say yes, please say yes!’

  I had tears in my eyes too; I was still jealous, but I wasn’t so sure of myself any more, and I genuinely loved Gulnar, though I loathed some aspects of her character.

  ‘Where is Andrey?’ I asked.

  This question must have shown Gulnar that I was considering forgiving her—I wouldn’t have asked if I’d still been really angry.

  ‘He left two months ago now for Ankara. I haven’t heard any more of him since. But all his friends said he would go far. And I’m not talking about geography,’ she added, smiling, ‘but about his career. They trust him with diplomatic missions.’

  There was a pause, while Gulnar seemed to be thinking.

  ‘He’s attractive, Andrey, very attractive, but he’s hard. He never showed me the slightest tenderness.’

  ‘He is tender and he’s kind too!’ I cried.

  And I started to cry. Gulnar hugged me and caressed me. When I was a little calmer, she asked, ‘Is he really tender?’

  ‘He was with me. Extremely.’

  Gulnar shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Perhaps. I’m not disagreeing with you. He never stopped being cold towards me. One day he waved his revolver in front of me—he was playing with it and pretending to aim at me. “Would you kill me?” I asked him.

  ‘“Of course. I wouldn’t hesitate if it meant doing my duty!”

  ‘He spoke so seriously it sent a shiver down my spine. This may be what drove me to leave him. But we’re getting off the point. Do you want to come with me?’

  I wiped my eyes. I really didn’t have to be jealous.

  ‘All right, I’ll come with you.’

  She covered me with kisses and we left the house, reconciled.

  ‘What are you going to say to them?’

  ‘I don’t know. That I was abducted?’

  ‘You take a suitcase and other things and want to say you were abducted?’

  Gulnar chewed her lips.

  ‘I’ll see.’

  ‘Why did you come back anyway?’

  ‘Because the man I was living with began to get on my nerves. Since I didn’t have my eye on anyone else, I decided to come and see what’s going on here. But don’t worry, I won’t be staying long in this miserable dump.’

  Gulnar pushed me in front of her and I opened the door. All the family were drinking tea around the samovar.

  ‘I’ve brought someone to see you,’ I said casually.

  The whole family gave a cry of astonishment. My aunt blanched, her lips trembled and she threw herself on Gulnar, covering her with kisses.

  ‘Before you embrace her, ask this slut where she’s been!’ Uncle Suleyman roared in his gruff voice. ‘And who with? Who-o-o with?’

  ‘No one, Papa. I left because Selim was tormenting me with his jealousy. I wanted a change of scene.’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ Her father gave a devilish laugh. ‘Selim was tormenting her! Selim who couldn’t torment a flea! Whore!’

  Gulnar drew herself up and said proudly, ‘Not everybody can be a whore!’ The peerless dignity with which she uttered those words had to be seen to be believed.

  ‘Be quiet! Don’t be so insolent!’ raged Uncle Suleyman, then immediately contradicted himself. ‘Tell me what you’ve done and who with?’

  ‘All right, I left with Maria Nikolayevna, the woman I met at the country house. You know, the teacher! She took me with her to Moscow, where I worked in a nursery school.’

  I had always greatly admired Gulnar’s wit and presence of mind, but I became truly convinced of her superiority to me when I heard how glibly she could lie. She lied so effortlessly that more intelligent men than Uncle Suleyman would have been taken in. But her brothers Asad and Ali were on the lookout. Lying was their daily bread; they were just as good at it as Gulnar and not easily fooled. ‘Huh,’ they said in unison, reigniting their father’s doubts. He looked at his sons and his daughter in turn, trying to divine the truth.

  ‘Why didn’t you let us know you were leaving? And why didn’t you write to us after you’d gone?’

  ‘But I did, Papa. I was surprised and hurt when I didn’t receive any reply. You know what a mess the mail is in—the letters must have all got lost. Is that my fault?’

  ‘Pull the other one!’ said Asad.

  ‘You must be joking!’ Ali echoed.

  ‘And you can be quiet too,’ Gulnar shouted at them, infuriated by their malicious comments. ‘I’ve no hope of behaving as well as you. If you think I don’t know what you did with little Aslan, or with other children, girls as well as boys, then you’re wrong. Worse still, you’re thieves, liars and traitors!’

  As usual in that family, everyone started shouting at once—father, mother, the other little brothers. In the midst of the fracas the door opened to reveal Selim, white as a sheet.

  ‘I knew from her luggage that Gulnar was back…’ And unable to continue he rushed over to her and clasped her in a desperate embrace. ‘I knew you’d come back! I knew it! I’ve been waiting for you all this time!’

  And he cried for joy. All the family, even Asad and Ali, were moved.

  Gulnar quietly went back to living with Selim and life resumed its old pattern, except perhaps that Selim seemed more inclined towards melancholy. Gulnar was voluble on the subject of her supposed stay in Moscow and the nursery school (here she adopted a virtuous tone that suited her script perfectly), dredging up Maria Nikolayevna for the good of the cause. She became genuinely emotional talking about the little children she had looked after, their kindness and gratitude. She made up the things they said and did with a real flair for invention.

  ‘You should be writing novels,’ I said admiringly one day.

  ‘Maybe later when I lose interest in men. It can’t be as much fun to write a novel as to live one!’

  And she clicked her tongue several times to show her enthusiasm.

  After a month in Baku she was already bored and planning her getaway. She didn’t know yet to where or how or with whom. I envied Gulnar her adventurous natur
e, so different from my own timorous, hesitant character, which might have cost me my happiness. I didn’t know then how much I would change; so much so that as I now describe my former self, I feel neither compassion nor sympathy for her. Such is the miraculous effect of time, the magician that both creates and destroys.

  13

  Spring was painfully beautiful, promising happiness that would never come. The weather warmed up, the buds swelled on the trees. Worst of all were the days when the sun played on everything, animate and inanimate alike; when the sparrows sang their hearts out, heedless of being in the Caucasus or France; when the whole of nature gleamed and glittered in one great celebration from which I felt excluded. The deep blue of the sky seemed to hold the secret of happiness, as far out of reach as the sky itself, but always sought after, waited for. For me, as for many others, waiting had become my dominant state, the essence of life, and remains so to this day.

  We were waiting for the passport that would allow us to go abroad; the commissar friend’s promise had become a realistic prospect. I got out the suitcases, or rather a suitcase, as I wasn’t expecting to take many things with me, and put it in a prominent position on a chair. It symbolized the anticipation of freedom and happiness. When I felt sad and downhearted, just one look at the symbolic suitcase would revive my hopes.

  When she came to see me, Gulnar gave the suitcase an envious look: ‘You’ve got all the luck,’ she said harshly. ‘You’re going to France, you’ll be able to sleep with Frenchmen. They’re supposed to be very good lovers, better than any other nationality. Oh,’ she sighed, ‘I would like to have lots of lovers, masses of lovers. Whenever I see a likely man, I want to become his mistress, to play a part in his life. Don’t you feel that desire too?’

  No, I definitely did not feel that desire.

  ‘You’re a man’s wife. If you had gone off with Andrey, he might have been the only man you knew. It’s a good thing it didn’t happen! There’s a glimmer of hope left. Does he still disgust you, Jamil?’

  I was categorical on the subject: poor Jamil still disgusted me.

  ‘If we see each other in a few years’ time, who knows what I might hear about you!’

  To be honest, I didn’t expect very much. My difficult character made life so hard and seemed to me to be incompatible with Gulnar’s hopes.

  The birds went on singing, Gulnar went on looking for lovers and I went on playing the piano, until the day Jamil came home, beside himself. Our hopes, which until then had remained vague promises, were becoming reality, tangible reality—he had seen the legendary passport, harbinger of another world, another life. A few minor formalities later and this world, this other life, would be ours. My reaction was unexpected and stupid—I collapsed onto a chair in tears. ‘Stop crying, you poor fool, you utter fool!’ an inner voice whispered, but I couldn’t help it.

  My mother-in-law came out of the kitchen, skewer of meat in hand, to see what was going on. When she heard the news and saw me crying, she joined in. One hand grasped the skewer, the other wiped away the tears streaming down her hollow cheeks.

  ‘Ay Allah!’ she groaned. ‘You’re both going to leave me! Me so old and yet to see the joy of a grandson emerging from your belly. I’ll be all alone with those three devils, who will tear each other apart before my eyes!’

  Next to appear was the maid. Having listened to her mistress’s woes, she sat on the floor and began to cry too, out of solidarity. There we were, the three of us, weeping and sighing, while Jamil walked anxiously from one to the next, close to tears himself.

  I enjoyed drawing up my list of farewell visits. Jamil and I watched with alarm as it grew longer and longer: his family, mine, our relations, his friends, my friends, our friends. How much free time would we need to go and see them all, to hear them sighing, crying and doling out advice? I started crossing out more and more names; whole families disappeared at the stroke of a pencil, dubious families were struck off; distant kinship justified ruthless rejection until the list appeared manageable. But before I left the Caucasus, perhaps for good, there was one visit I did not cross off, though it would be my longest—to the countryside that I had loved so much. I wanted to take my leave of all that had been dear to me during my childhood: all my silent friends—inanimate to others, but always alive to me.

  At the railway terminus I got a place in a carriage, where other travellers were already sitting. There was no special greeting for me from the coachman, as he did not recognize me, nor did the horses’ bridles sport any of those colourful woollen pompoms I had liked so much that I wanted them on my own hats. But there was the usual long journey across the desert, full of holes and stones—though a tarmacked road was already under construction by the revolutionary government: another justifiable topic of propaganda against the former oil barons!

  The carriage did not enter through the gate as it used to do, but stopped by the side of the road. I took my leave of my travelling companions, the carriage continued on its way and I was alone. The estate was quiet during this season, inhabited only by a few gardeners—I couldn’t see a living soul.

  I went up to the iron gate and gave the knocker a clang which must have shattered the peace for miles around. I had a long wait, but eventually the gate opened and Firdusi, our former head gardener, appeared. Unkempt and at first looking wary, his expression changed as soon as he saw me.

  ‘My good khanim, may you enjoy heavenly blessings!’ he cried in delight. ‘I’m so glad to see you here. We only see those foreign pigs now! What brings you here?’

  I explained that I was leaving Baku to join my father in France.

  ‘Ah, your father, your father! He was good to us, your father! May Allah protect him! So you are all leaving, one after the other? You are abandoning us! What will become of us? How long are you staying here?’

  I told him I would be glad to spend the night if he could offer me hospitality.

  ‘To whom would I offer hospitality if not to you, my master’s daughter? Khadija, Sofia and Sevar will be very glad to see you!’

  These were Firdusi’s three wives, of whom the oldest was thirty and the youngest fifteen. When they saw me walk in with their husband, they cried out in welcome and surprise and rushed over to embrace me warmly. Their six children and three cats ran around us, and a mangy dog bounded in. They were triumphant when they heard I was to spend the night with them, but plunged into mourning when they heard I was to leave Baku. They snapped out of it only when their husband told them to make me as lavish a dinner as possible. I left them where I had found them—busy in the kitchen. I wanted to make the most of the fine afternoon that God had put at my disposal.

  The gardener’s house, big enough to accommodate all his family and two other gardeners as well, stood at the entrance to the estate. The masters’ house was in the middle of the garden and could not be seen from there. I asked Firdusi to leave me on my own and walked towards the house, down the long avenue of poplars. Here was where I felt truly at home, among my poplars—as straight as ever, unbowed by the revolution. Hundreds of rose bushes were already starting to stretch out tiny leaves in the warm sunshine. The only sound I could hear was the scrunch of sand beneath my feet. Everything looked the same as in the past—a deceptive impression that did not last. On the contrary, everything had mysteriously changed, because I had changed. I had been part of this world, as a grain of sand or poplar branch was part of it; no boundaries had separated me from its inhabitants, and at times our lives had merged. But that world had gone: in its place was another world, outwardly similar to the old one, but lacking its vital essence… Its soul escaped me. Was it taking revenge as I was about to leave it behind? It was avoiding me, ignoring me, excluding me from its embrace.

  I climbed the steps of the large pool and sat at the edge of the water, which was as green and opaque as ever. Never again would I see this water, which my childhood had filled with monsters and sirens, or its reflection of walnut trees and clouds, my walnut trees and clouds. It
was a concept I couldn’t fully comprehend. I dipped my fingers into the cold water as I had done a thousand times before. The setting remained the same, but the times changed; I was seven, ten, thirteen; I dipped my fingers in the water while Asad and Ali chased each other round the pool’s rim, the width of a jetty; I dipped my fingers in the water and Fräulein Anna scolded me; I dipped my fingers in the water and Aunt Rena called me to come and fasten her dress.

  When I had exhausted my memories of the pool, I headed to the house, to which Firdusi had given me the key. First of all, I visited my grandmother’s kitchen; I could see her sitting on the floor, sweating profusely, swearing, doling out smacks to the children, insults to everyone and blessings to some. Now the cold, sad kitchen seemed abandoned by the world; I shivered to see it this way, dead. The whole house seemed like a corpse, its soul stolen away. I sat at the piano and played a few chords, deliberately choosing some cheerful tunes, but they sounded flat, funereal to me. I quickly closed the lid. I walked through the house from room to room, the impression of death growing at every step. I stopped on the terrace and sat on the bench. The sun was setting in a clear sky where birds soared effortlessly. The rays gilded the sallow stones of the house, while the still bare branches hung down to my feet, bringing them a touch of warmth. The house, abandoned by everyone, seemed to be looking at me in gentle reproach: ‘You too?’ it asked. Yes, me too. I left the house with its heartbreaking melancholy and went to the vineyard. I lay down on the rock where I had met Andrey. Then I sat up as I had done when Gulnar told me that Gregory was bringing another man to see us. I watched Andrey approach in his black uniform: Andrey, Prince Andrey, Prince Andrey Bolkonsky! He had been all I dreamt he would be, but I let him leave without me. ‘That’s what you chose,’ I said to myself, ‘so stop complaining!’ Then I drifted into a long reverie that touched every subject.

  All would be dead to me—the poplars, with their rustling by turn soft and brutal, the vast house that saw me return every summer a little taller, the blue depths of the sea, everything I loved at the time when I thought life would be just a succession of rosy mornings and death would have no meaning for me. Never again would I see or hear or smell this world that had been my sole, gentle universe for so many long years. Now I understood that things, people, feelings were destined to disappear one after the other; that instead of happiness life was separation and regret; that at every moment something escaped from us, fell away irrevocably, and this is how it would be my whole life long. These were the truths that the sea, the sky and the poplars taught me in farewell.