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should be mixed up in adult affairs at such a tender age.
"Meksut lives quite near here," he said, pointing with his axe along
the path I had been thinking of taking.
He started telling me the way, interrupting himself now and then to
marvel yet again at how close this Meksut fellow lived and how simple it was
to get there. All I gathered in the end was that I had to go down the path.
I was so thankful to have met him and to hear that Uncle Meksut lived so
close, that I didn't ask any further questions. The man called his dog. I
heard its panting in the darkness, then the sleek powerful body shot out of
the bushes. The dog ran up to its master, remembered me in passing and gave
me another quick sniff all over--the way they check a passport when they're
sure it's all in order--and squatted down, with its tail beating on the
grass.
"You're very close here, it's almost within shouting distance," he
said. And he went on his way, still apparently thinking aloud and rejoicing
in my good luck. The dog bounded on ahead, the man's footsteps died in the
stillness and I was left alone.
I set off along the path with its dense thickets of hazel-nut and
blackberry. In places the bushes joined over the path and I had to duck
under them, holding them up with my stick. Even so, the wet branches
sometimes caught me from behind and the chilly dew made me start. After a
time the bushes parted and it grew much lighter. I came out into the open
and found myself in a cemetery, gleaming pallidly in the white light of the
moon.
Cold with fear, I remembered passing this cemetery once before, but
that had been in the daytime and it had made no impression on me whatever. I
recalled an apple tree I had stripped of a few apples. It was still there
and, although it now seemed quite different, I tried to recover the carefree
attitude of the day when I had been knocking down apples. But even this did
not help. The tree stood motionless in the light of the moon with its
dark-blue leaves and pale-blue apples and I crept past it as quietly as I
could.
The cemetery was like a dwarf city with its iron railings, the little
green gardens of the graves, toy-like palaces small benches, and wooden and
iron roofs. It was as though death had only made the people here much
smaller and much more vicious and dangerous, and they were still living here
in their quiet, sinister way.
Beside some of the graves there were stools with wine and food on them.
On one there was even a lighted candle shielded by a glass jar with the
bottom knocked out. I knew it was the custom to place food and drink by a
grave, but this only made me all the more frightened.
The crickets were chirping. The moonlight whitened the already white
gravestones and this made the black shadows even blacker, and they lay on
the ground like heavy motionless boulders.
I tried to pass the graves as quietly as possible but my stick tapped
thunderously on the hard soil. I tucked it under my arm but then there was
no sound at all, and this was even more frightening. All at once I noticed
the lid of a coffin leaning against the cemetery fence and, just beside it,
a freshly dug grave that had not yet been enclosed.
I felt an icy chill creep up my spine, reach the back of my head and
clutch painfully at my scalp, making my hair stand on end. I walked on,
keeping my eyes fixed on the coffin lid which was gleaming reddishly in the
light of the moon.
I was sure that the dead man had climbed out of his grave propped the
coffin lid against the fence and was now walking round somewhere close by
or, perhaps, was hiding behind the coffin lid, waiting for me to turn or run
away.
I therefore walked on without quickening my pace, feeling that the main
thing was not to take my eyes off the coffin lid. Grass rustled round my
feet. I realised that I had left the path but I kept walking, still with my
eyes fixed on the coffin lid. Eventually I might have wrung my own neck if I
had not suddenly felt myself falling into a deep hole.
Now it's started, I thought, as the moon streaked across the sky and I
landed on something white and furry that wriggled out from under me. I lay
on the ground with my eyes closed and awaited my doom. I sensed that the
thing was near and that I was completely at its mercy. Scenes from the tales
of hunters and shepherds about mysterious encounters in the forest or
strange occurrences in cemeteries went flashing through my head.
The thing, however, was in no hurry. My fear became unbearable and with
all the strength I could muster I forced open my eyes.
It was as if I had suddenly switched on a light. At first I could see
nothing, then I made out in the darkness something white and unsteady. I
felt that it was watching me closely. The most frightening thing about it
was the way it swayed. Icy shivers kept racing up my spine, bristling the
hair on the back of my head and ricochetting into the tips of my ears.
I don't know how much time passed. Gradually I began to recognise the
smell of freshly dug earth, still warm from the day's sunshine, and another
very familiar, encouraging, almost homely smell. The white thing was still
swaying in the corner, but terror that goes on endlessly ceases to be
terror.
I became aware of a pain in my leg. I had twisted it badly when I fell
and now I wanted to stretch it.
I stared hard at the thing in the corner. Gradually the blurred white
shape began to acquire familiar outlines and eventually I realised that the
ghost had turned into a goat. I could make out in the darkness its beard and
horns. But since I had long been aware that the devil sometimes took the
form of a goat, I was somewhat comforted; clearly this was what had
happened. What I hadn't known was that he could also smell of goat.
I cautiously stretched out my leg and noticed that the thing was also
showing signs of caution. At least it had stopped chewing and was only
swaying.
I kept very still and it began chewing again. I raised my head and saw
the edge of the hole into which I had fallen rimmed with moonlight, and a
transparent strip of sky with a small star in the middle. A tree rustled
overhead and it was strange to think of the breeze that must be stirring up
there. I looked up at the star and that, too, seemed to sway in the breeze.
There was a light thud; an apple had fallen off the tree. I gave a start and
realised that it was getting cold.
A boyish instinct told me that inaction could not be a sign of strength
and since the thing, whatever it was, merely went on chewing and staring
through me, I decided to make an attempt at escape.
I rose cautiously to my feet and realised that even with a jump I could
not reach the edge of the hole. My stick was still up there and it might not
have been much help anyway.
The hole was rather narrow and I tried to climb out by pushing my hands
and feet against opposite walls. Grunting with exertion, I managed to raise
myself a little but the leg I had twisted gave way and I flopped to the
bottom again.
When I fell, the thing scrambled up and jumped aside in terror. That
was an unwise move on its part. I grew bolder and went over to it. It
cowered silently in its corner. I cautiously put out my hand to its face. It
brushed my hand with its lips, breathing warmly over it, smelled it and with
a shake of its head gave out a real goatish snort.
This finally convinced me that it was no devil but simply another
creature in trouble like myself. In my time as a herd-boy I had often known
goats to climb into places from which they could not find a way out.
I sat down on the ground beside the goat, put my arms round its neck
and tried to get warm by pressing against its warm belly. I tried to make it
sit down but it stubbornly insisted on standing. Eventually, however, it
began to lick my hand, at first cautiously, then with increasing confidence,
and its firm, springy tongue scraped roughly at my wrist, licking off the
salt. The rough, ticklish sensation was pleasant and I did not draw my hand
away. My goat began to enjoy itself and soon started plucking at the cuff of
my shirt with its sharp teeth, but I rolled up my sleeve and gave it a fresh
place to graze.
It took a long time, licking the salt off my arm, and I huddled against
its warm body and felt that even if the blue, moonlit face of a corpse were
to appear over the edge of the pit I would merely cuddle up closer to my
goat and not feel too frightened. For the first time in my life I really
appreciated what it meant to have another living creature for company.
In the end the goat grew tired of licking my arm and unexpectedly sat
down beside me and resumed its chewing.
It was still as quiet as ever but the moonlight had become even more
transparent and the star had moved to the edge of the strip of sky. It was
even cooler now.
Suddenly I heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching and my heart began
to race madly.
The hoofbeats grew more and more distinct and sometimes I caught the
clink of a metal shoe on a stone. I was afraid the horseman would turn aside
but the noise grew steadily louder and I could soon hear the laboured
breathing of the horse and the creak of the saddle. Suspense rooted me to
the spot but, when the hoofbeats were almost overhead, I jumped up and began
to shout:
"Hi! Hi! I'm here!"
The horse stopped and in the stillness I could detect the bony click of
its teeth as it champed at the bit. Then a man's voice called hesitantly:
"Who's there?"
I strained upward and shouted, "It's me! A boy!"
The man was silent for a time, then I heard, "What boy?"
The man's voice was firm and suspicious. He was afraid of a trap.
"I'm a boy from the town," I said, trying to speak in a living and not
a corpse-like voice with the result that my voice sounded repulsively
unnatural.
"How did you get down there?" the man asked harshly, still fearing a
trap.
"I fell in. I was on my way to Uncle Meksut's," I said hastily, afraid
that he would go on without listening to any more.
"To Meksut? Why didn't you say so before?"
I heard him dismount and throw the reins over the fence. The sound of
his footsteps came nearer but before he got to the edge of the hole he
stopped.
"Grab hold of this!" I heard, and a rope swished through the air and
dangled in front of me.
I took hold of it, then remembered the goat. It was standing all by
itself in the corner. Without a second thought I wound the rope round its
neck, quickly tied a double knot and shouted, "Pull!"
As the rope grew taut, the goat shook its head and reared on its hind
legs. I grabbed its hindquarters and heaved for all I was worth because the
rope was cutting into its neck. But as soon as its horned head, bathed in
moonlight, appeared over the edge of the hole, the man cried out in what
seemed to me a goat-like voice, dropped the rope and ran. The goat crashed
down beside me, bleating plaintively and I let out a yell of pain because in
falling it had trodden on my foot with its hoof. What with the pain, the
disappointment and weariness I burst into tears. Tears had been close enough
already, almost on a level with my eyes. Now they streamed forth so
abundantly that in the end I was frightened by them and stopped crying. I
raged at myself for not telling the man about the goat, but then I
remembered his horse and decided that he was bound to come back for it
sooner or later.
After about ten minutes I heard his stealthy footsteps. I knew he
wanted to unhitch his horse and make off.
"That was a goat," I said loudly and calmly.
Silence.
"That was a goat," I repeated, trying not to change my tone.
I felt he had stopped and was listening.
"Whose goat?" he asked suspiciously.
"I don't know. It fell in before me," I replied, realising that this
did not sound very convincing.
"You don't seem to know anything," he said. Then he asked, "What
relation are you to Meksut?"
Somewhat incoherently I began to explain our relationship (everyone is
related in Abkhazia). I felt that he was beginning to trust me and tried not
to reawaken his suspicions. Shouting up to him from below, I explained why I
was visiting Uncle Meksut.
It made me realise just how difficult it is to offer excuses for your
behaviour when you have both feet in a freshly dug grave.
In the end he came up to the grave and peered cautiously over the edge.
His unshaven face wore an expression of disgust, strangely intensified by
the moonlight. It was obvious that he disliked both the place where he was
and the place where he was looking. I had the impression he was trying to
hold his breath.
I tossed him the rope, which was still attached to the goat. He gripped
it and heaved. I tried to help from below. The goat resisted foolishly, but
as soon as we had lifted it a little the man seized its horn and, expressing
violent disgust in every movement, dragged the animal out of the grave.
Obviously he was still finding the whole incident very unpleasant.
"You Godforsaken creature," he said, and I heard him put his boot into
the goat. The goat gulped and probably tried to run away because the man
grabbed the rope and tugged.
Then he leaned right into the grave, keeping one hand on the edge,
seized my wrist with the other and heaved me crossly to the surface. As he
heaved I tried to make myself lighter because I was afraid of getting some
of the same medicine as the goat. He planted me on the ground beside him. He
was a big, heavily built man, and my wrist felt sore from his grip.
For a moment he surveyed me in silence, then his face broke into a
sudden smile and his big hand came out and ruffled my hair.
"You gave me a proper scare with that goat of yours. I thought I was
pulling out a human being, and then that horned devil appears!"
My spirits rose at once. We went over to the horse, which was still
standing patiently by the fence.
The goat followed us on the end of the rope. When we reached the horse,
it stamped nervously and squinted at the goat.
A tasty smell of horse sweat, saddle leather and maize struck my
nostrils. He must have been taking his maize to the mill, I thought, and
remembered that the rope had also smelled of maize. He helped me or rather
hoisted me into the saddle. I remembered my stick but dared not go back for
it. Besides, the moment I tried to get into the saddle the horse turned its
head and snapped at my leg. I just managed to draw it away in time.
Its master led it away from the fence, gathered up the reins and,
without letting go of the rope attached to the goat, heaved his massive body
into the saddle. I felt the horse's back sag under him and he crushed me
against the saddle bow as he settled himself in the saddle and flicked the
reins.
The thought of the goat behind us made me rather ashamed. In the grave
we had been on equal terms, but now I was in a privileged position.
The horse trotted along at a lively pace, trying to break into a
canter, stamping its feet with pent-up energy and irritation at having a
goat trailing behind it.
Lulled by the muffled clip-clop of hoofs and the gentle rocking of the
saddle, I fell into a doze, awakening only when the path led down a slope
and the weight of the rider behind crushed me against the saddle bow, so
that I had to push for all I was worth to protect my stomach. When we were
climbing, however, I would nestle back comfortably on his chest, drowsily
aware of the horse's quivering forelock, sensitive ears and monotonously
swaying neck.
The horse halted and I became fully awake again. We were standing by a
fence beyond which I glimpsed a broad, tidy yard and a large house, built on
high wooden piles. There were lights in the windows. It was Uncle Meksut's
house.
"Hi there, where's the master?" the owner of the horse shouted and lit
a cigarette. He looped the goat's tether round a stake in the fence without
knotting it.
In answer to his shout a door opened and we heard a voice call, "Who's
there?"
The voice was firm and sharp. People in our parts usually answer an
unfamiliar shout at night like that, to show they are ready for any
encounter.
Uncle Meksut--I recognised his stocky, broadshouldered figure at
once--came down the steps and walked in our direction, shoving away the
dogs, and peering at us keenly from a distance.
I remember his surprise and fright when he recognised me.
"Wait till you hear it all," said my rescuer, plucking me out of the
saddle and trying to pass me straight across the fence to Uncle Meksut.
But I resisted and, clutching a stake in the fence, slid down into the
yard by myself. He unwound the goat's tether.
"Where's the goat from?" Uncle Meksut asked, looking even more
surprised.
"Quite a miracle, eh!" said the horseman cheerfully and mysteriously,
and glanced at me as if we were equals.
"Get off your horse and come inside!" Uncle Meksut urged, taking his
bridle.
"Thanks, Meksut, but I just can't manage it," the horseman replied with
an air of haste, though up to now he had shown no sign of being in a hurry.
In accordance with Abkhazian custom Uncle Meksut urged him at great
length to partake of his hospitality, now showing offence, now pleading, now
making fun of the allegedly urgent business that was preventing him from
staying. All the time he kept glancing now at me, now at the goat, sensing
that there was some connection between my arrival and the goat but unable to
grasp what.
At length the horseman rode away with the goat behind him and Uncle
Meksut took me into the house, clicking his tongue in astonishment and
shouting at the dogs.
In a room lighted not so much by the lamp as by the brightly blazing
fire, there were both men and women seated round a table laid with snacks
and fruit. I spotted my mother at once and saw her face turn slowly pale
despite the crimson reflection of the flames. The guests jumped to their
feet with gasps and exclamations of alarm.
One of my aunts from town, on hearing of the purpose of my visit, began
to fall slowly backwards as if in a faint. But since no one in the country
understood such things and no one showed any intention of saving her, she
checked herself halfway and pretended she had a crick in the back. Uncle
Meksut did all he could to reassure the women, proposed a toast to victory,
to their sons, and to everyone's safe return home. He was a man of great
hospitality and his house was always full of guests. Down here in the valley
they had already brought in the grape harvest and the season of long toasts
was just beginning.
Mother sat in silence, without touching any of the food or drink. I
felt sorry for her and wanted to comfort her, but the role I had chosen for
myself would allow no such display of weakness.
I was given a plate of steaming hominy and chicken, and a glass of wine
was poured for me. Mother shook her head reproachfully but Uncle Meksut said
that the wine was too young to be real wine yet and I wasn't a baby any
longer.
I related my adventures and, as I sucked the last of the chicken bones,
felt a delicious drowsiness creeping over me, sweet and golden as the young
wine itself. I fell asleep at the table.
The next day I learned that it was the Moslem custom to bury a man
without any lid on his coffin, presumably to facilitate his resurrection.
The stray goat turned out to be one of the collective farm's. The freshly
dug grave into which we had fallen had been dug by mistake.
Mother returned from Baku about ten days later. My brother, it turned
out, had not been wounded at all. He had just been feeling homesick and
wanted to see one of the family before being sent to the front. And, of
course, he got what he wanted. Always up to some trick was my brother.
--------
He used to sit in front of me in class, so during lessons I would
admire the manly shape of the back of his head and his broad shoulders. I
think it was that indomitable back of his head that I liked first, before I
liked him.
When he turned to dip his pen in our inkwell, I was able to study his
profile with its high-bridged nose, thick, close-knit eyebrows and cold grey
eyes.
He always turned slowly, as a warrior in the saddle turns to observe
any lagging members of his troop. Sometimes he would grant me an
understanding smile, as though he had felt my gaze and wanted me to know
that he appreciated my devotion and yet would prefer me to exercise a little
moderation, a little restraint in admiring the back of his head,
particularly as he had other merits besides his massive cranium.
In his movements in general I felt a solidity not usually found in
thirteen- or fourteen-year-olds. But it was not the fake solidity affected
by the swots and the beginners of the bootlicking tribe. It was the real
thing that was to be found only in grown-up people.
True solidity, I would say, is the feeling of distinction a man
acquires from being aware of a certain overabundance of physical weight in
his every movement.
Now, if such a person enters a room and, let us say, sits down at your
festive table and, having seated himself, casually motions the suddenly
agitated guests to be seated as well, what, dear comrades, is the
characteristic feature of this situation?
Its characteristic feature is that this superabundance of physical
weight imparts to his gesture such gravity that he restores your guests to
their places almost without looking at them at all, from which it follows
that they were quite right to have become agitated in the first place.
Because how could they have failed to become agitated on realising how
morally lightweight and insecure they were in face of this extra weighty but
indubitably pacifying gesture.
So, during the movement of this hand which, though not too sweeping,
is, happily, sufficiently prolonged, those at table who for one reason or
another were not alerted in time manage to rouse themselves and now with a
certain belated jubilance (like everything belated, exaggerated) jump to
their feet and join in the general agitation so that they can subside with
everyone else in obedience to the movement of the hand, which seems to say,
"It's quite all right, comrades, I'll just squeeze into a corner
somewhere..."
"What a man!" the assembled guests intimate with a delighted murmur
and, having murmured, relax into a state of exhausted happiness.
That is what true solidity is!
And he, my idol, possessed such true solidity, that is to say, he was
constantly aware of this extra physical weight in every movement.
Admittedly, this weight was the direct result of a muscle development far
beyond his years and not an expression of the burdens of authority, as in
adults.
Yes, my idol was stronger than anyone not only in our class, but in
what for us at that age was the whole conceivable world. And yet at first
glance there was nothing special about him--just a stocky lad, by no means
tall even for our class.
"That's for smoking, I don't grow because I smoke," he would say in the
break, pulling at the home-made cigarette concealed in his fist, and it
sounded rather as if this was divine punishment for his self-indulgence,
although since the punishment atoned for the sin he was still able to speak
of it calmly and go on smoking.
We lived in the same street. His name was Yura Stavrakidi and he was
the youngest son in the large family of a house painter. He was always
helping his father, particularly in summer. The painter's eldest son was by
that time in the process of becoming an intellectual. Already a full-grown
lad, he was in his last year at an industrial technical school, wore a
neck-tie and could talk for hours about international politics. Yura and his
father, one might say, were helping him to hold on to his intellectual
laurels. But even he would now and then discard the neck-tie, change his
clothes, take a paint brush and go off to work with his father and brother.
When they returned from work in the evening he would spend a long time
washing in the yard. Yura would pour the water for him and, as I would be
waiting for Yura, I had to put up with this lengthy procedure, which was not
so easy.
It was the usual thing at this time for all those who liked discussing
international events to gather in a corner of the yard.
Yura's brother, instead of getting on with washing himself, having his
supper and going out to sit with them--if he couldn't do without this thing
of his--would start bandying all kinds of ideas back and forth while
washing, which endlessly prolonged the business and made me wild with
impatience. Apparently in the course of the day's work he had grown hungry
for this kind of talk because it certainly did not go down with his father,
whose constant contact with bare walls during his long life as a painter had
almost deprived him of the ability to converse.
All his life he had been busy silently daubing paint on walls and
presumably had produced his children in the same silent fashion. And the
more children he produced, the more walls he had to paint, so there had been
no time left for talking; he had to get on with mixing his paints and
obtaining enough whitewash. What was there to talk about anyhow! I think if
he could have had his way he would have taken all those ranting and raving
politicians and puttied up their mouths, ears and eyes, painted them from
head to foot and left them standing deaf, dumb and blind, like those plaster
statues we have in our parks. Or he might even have walled them up
somewhere, and he would certainly have painted that wall so well that if you
scraped it for a lifetime you would never discover the place where they were
hidden. Because no matter how many children you brought into the world there
would never be enough for their filthy meat-grinder, and no matter how many
walls you painted your work would all be wasted because one air-raid would
knock down so many, paint and all, that thousands of builders working all
the year round still would not be able to restore them.
All this was written on his toil-worn, gloomy face, the face of an old
workman, and it had taken a tremendous war with all its disasters and
hardships for this thought to emerge so that it could be seen by all, to
make it show through his gloominess, just as a great fresco shows through on
a neglected monastery wall.
Unfortunately, neither we children, nor Yura's brother, nor any of the
other devotees of international affairs had any notion of this at the time.
Yura's brother would go without bread as long as you let him hold forth on
the subject of collective security, the machinations of the Vatican or
something of that kind.
It always seemed to me unfair that he should start holding forth about
all this even before he had finished washing and changing.
Besides, while he was slapping water on his face he would sometimes
fail to hear what other people were saying and, having got everything wrong,
have to ask them all over again. Or else he would scoop up some water in his
hands and, instead of splashing it on his face, suddenly stop half way and
listen while the water trickled through his fingers without his noticing it,
and then he would slap his cheeks with empty hands and look suspiciously at
Yura as though Yura was to blame for what had happened and for gathering all
these talkers round him.
Sometimes, with his face all soapy, he would open his eyes, and then
get into a temper because he thought he was being misunderstood whereas, in
fact, as I could see perfectly well, it was simply the soap stinging his
eyes. Or perhaps he would be asked a question just when he had given himself
a silent slap on the back of the head indicating the spot where Yura was to
pour next and while Yura was pouring, the others would stand round like
stuffed dummies, waiting for the brother to raise his dripping head and
regale them with his answer.
He went on talking while towelling himself, and even while pulling on
his shirt he never stopped asking questions and giving answers.
Sometimes it was simply ridiculous. Before he got his head out of the
shirt he would start muttering away inside it, as though we could understand
what he was muttering about. And sometimes he couldn't get his head out at
all because he had forgotten to unbutton the collar. But would he unbutton
it himself? Oh no, this darling of the family would wait like a baby to be
unbuttoned by Yura and meanwhile go on jabbering in this strange
head-in-a-tent attitude.
He was just like the mad photographer who came to take pictures of us
at school. Having pulled his black hood over his head, he would start
muttering remarks that we couldn't understand, or at least we pretended we
couldn't because we felt we had a right not to. Who likes being talked at
from under a hood anyway? In the end he would flap out from under its folds
and, having recovered his breath, issue all kinds of instructions about who
should sit where, then take another gulp of air and dive under the hood
again.
Similarly Yura's brother would in the end--admittedly only with Yura's
help--get his head through the shirt and go off to his friends, tucking his
shirt-tails in as he went. That, thank goodness, he did himself.
But then Yura's mother would appear on the porch and call out in Greek
that supper was ready and he would ignore her and so persistently that she
would begin to scold him and shout at him to finish his "jabber-jabber
conference".
Who knows, perhaps this expression was coined by her, but to this day
that is what the people of our town call any long spell of talking. At one
time this expression used to irritate me. It struck me as inaccurate and
incomplete. Its meaning seemed to flop about in a much too large envelope of
sound. But later I realised that this flopping about is indeed the highest
form of accuracy, because even in the actual phenomena of life the concept
an expression implies flops about just as uselessly. Luckily, as time went
on, Yura's brother returned less and less frequently to his father's
profession and I seldom had to suffer their joint washing operation while
waiting for Yura.
I can still see the long shrivelled figure of Yura's father, his face
overgrown with whitewash-like stubble, and Yura beside him, stripped to the
waist and spattered with whitewash, a long brush over his shoulder. In the
light of the setting sun he looked as magnificent as a young Hercules
walking home from work beside his old father.
When he had washed and eaten his supper, he would come out into the
street, still stripped to the waist as before, and we would all sit together
on the sun-warmed steps of the porch and Yura would tell us about the people
he and his father had been working for that day. His hands would be lying
limply on his knees, his face would be a little pale from fatigue, and I
would relish the pleasure he himself and his every muscle felt from being
still.
If he and his father had been working for a generous employer who knew
how to feed his men well, Yura would go on about what dishes they had been
given and how much he personally had eaten, and how he and his father had
tried to do as good a job as possible just to please their employer.
In summer Yura often visited his Greek relatives in the country. On his
return he would tell us what the life was like there, what they ate and how
much.
"I carried a hundredweight sack all the way from Tsebelda in six
hours," would be his next bit of information. That was his sports news.
"All the way from Tsebelda on foot?" a surprised voice would say. In
such cases there would always be one voice expressing the general surprise.
"Of course," Yura would reply, and then add, "I did eat a loaf of bread
and a kilo of butter on the road."
"How could you eat a kilo of butter, Yura?" the expresser of the
general surprise would ask.
"It's country butter, Greek butter," Yura would explain. "You can eat
it without bread if you like."
But besides his physical strength, what I would now call his games
sense was amazingly well developed too, and showed itself in most unexpected
ways.
There is no need to relate here the well-known case when he got on a
bicycle for the first time and after a push from someone and a couple of
wobbles with the handle bars rode away quite calmly.
The same kind of thing once happened at sea. For some reason Yura
hardly ever swam. Despite his incredible daring I believe he never trusted
the water. He knew how to stay afloat and would swim out a little way in
country style, but then turn back, find the bottom with his feet and walk
ashore. Either it was because he had grown up in a mountain village and not
on the coast, or because, like his ancient compatriot, he could do nothing
without a good foothold, but it was very hard to tempt him out of his depth;
he would swim out a mere five or six metres and then turn back to the shore.
As a person already much inclined to indulge in the simple forms of
pleasure, I could stay in the water for hours and I was, of course,
disappointed by his restrained attitude towards the sea. One day after much
persuasion I got him to go with me to the swimming pool. We undressed and
went up on to the board over the fifty-meter lanes. Among the foppish,
though almost naked, denizens of the pool he looked decidedly out of place
in a pair of shorts that came down to his knees.
He tried to climb down into the water, but I persuaded him to dive. We
decided to swim along together so that I could study his movements, get him
used to swimming out of his depth and in the end teach him something like a
proper modern style.
Yura jumped into the water--feet first, of course. I shall never forget
the expression of confusion combined with a readiness to resist that was
written on his face when he came up. It was the kind of expression a hunted
man might have when leaping out of bed in the middle of the night and
grabbing his gun.
However, having convinced himself that no one was going to pull him
under, he swam off to the opposite end. He swam his usual stern overarm
stroke, turning his head after every thrust, as though guarding his rear.
After waiting a few seconds I dived in after him. I had to tell him not
to turn his head like that.
I had decided to go straight into the crawl after my dive and overtake
him all in one breath, so to speak, without coming up for air.
When I did raise my head out of the water I looked at the lane beside
me, but Yura was not there. He was still in front. The distance between us
had scarcely lessened. He was still turning his head at every stroke and
making good progress.
Working hard with my legs, I switched to the breast stroke but, try as
I would, the gap between us remained the same. I was baffled. His head went
on turning at every sweep of his arm and his eyes gave a grim stare now over
the right shoulder, now over the left.
When I finally reached him he was already resting, or rather waiting
for me, holding on to the bars at the other end of the pool.
"Well, how did I swim?" he asked.
I looked into his grey eyes but found no mockery there.
"Pretty good, but don't keep turning your head," I replied, trying not
to show my heavy breathing, and also clutched the bars for support.
In answer to this he rubbed his neck a little and silently swam away to
the other end. I watched him. The funny way he had of turning his head to
right and left and throwing his arm out too straight diverted attention from
the powerful underwater work of his arms and legs.
He swam like a powerful animal in a strange but manageable environment.
That straight neck and indomitable head jutted proudly out of the water. I
realised that I should never catch up with him on land or sea.
I think my liking for the simple forms of pleasure helped me to
overcome a mean-spirited envy. Anyway, I decided his victory at sea only
proved once again how right I was in my choice of an object of worship.
Not far from our street there was a large and ancient park. In recent
times some sports facilities had been set up there, including a huge
cross-beam on posts to which was fixed a whole system of gymnastic
equipment: a pole, rings ropes and a set of wall-bars. Naturally Yura was
way ahead of us all on every piece of this equipment.
But he, my idol, was not only strong and agile, he was also the boldest
of us all, and this caused me a vague feeling of anxiety.
He would climb up the wall-bars on to the cross-beam itself, sit
astride it for a while, then let go with his hands and carefully stand up.
And then came the miracle of daring.
As we watched with bated breath he would sway gently until the
cross-beam was swaying with him. The posts that held it had been weakened by
the constant pull of the rope, which was used as a swing, so the whole
structure was soon in motion.
When he had got it moving like this, he would suddenly with well timed
steps run quickly along the beam from one end to the other. In the few
seconds it took him to reach the other end the beam would sway so violently
that it looked as if he would lose his balance and fall right off. But he
made it every time.
The top of the cross-beam was no wider than a man's hand and there were
bolts sticking out it, so in addition to everything else he had to be
careful not to trip over them as he ran.
We all breathed with relief when he finally lowered his hands to the
beam and climbed down by way of the wall-bars. This star turn by my idol
never failed to astound the spectators and he always performed it with
maximum risk--always swaying the beam first and always running, never
walking.
I don't know why, but I conceived a desperate desire to try myself out
at this high-altitude trick. I chose a time when none of our crowd were in
the park and climbed the wall-bars. While I still had a foothold on them,
the beam did not seem so terribly high. But as soon as my feet were on the
beam itself, I felt very high-up and unprotected.
I squatted on my haunches, gripping the beam with both hands, and tried
to gauge the quiet oscillation of the whole system. It was like being on the
back of a sleeping animal. I could feel its breathing and was afraid of
waking it.
At last I let go and straightened up. Trying not to look down, I took
one step and without lifting my other foot from the beam dragged it up to
the first. The whole structure was swaying gently under me. Ahead lay a
narrow green path studded with protruding bolts that I should have to be
careful of as well.
I took another step forward and cautiously drew up the other foot, but
not quite cautiously enough apparently, because the structure came to life
and heaved under me. Trying to keep my balance, I froze to the spot and
looked down.
The ground, red with fallen pine needles and reinforced with exposed
roots, swam beneath me.
"Go back before it's too late," I told myself and gingerly turned my
head. The end of the beam I had just left was quite close, but I realised at
once that I should not be able to turn round. Turning round on such a narrow
ledge would be worse than going forward.
I felt trapped. Either I must sit down astride the beam and ease myself
backwards, or I must continue on my way. Frightened though I was, some inner
force prevented me from making so shameful a retreat. I went forward.
Sometimes, as I began to lose my balance, I thought I had better jump rather
than fall off but somehow I managed to steady myself and go on. I walked
right to the other end and, now afraid that sheer joy might topple me, bent
down and put my arms right round the beam, hugging it and appreciating its
no longer dangerous swaying. It goes without saying that I did not keep my
little exploit a secret from the others. Yura himself looked hard at me,
then offered his congratulations. I repeated the trick several times
afterwards, but my fear grew hardly any less, it was simply that I got used
to the idea of mastering a fear of a certain intensity and mastered it.
It seems to me that in any kind of action the initial fear is so
powerful because it comes as a sensation of stepping into a yawning abyss,
into endless horror. When we overcome this fear, we do not remove the sense
of danger, but find a measure for that which we used to regard as infinite.
The man who finds a measure for non-being will provide us all with the best
antidote for the fear of death.
Some of the others also learned to walk the swaying beam but neither
they nor I ever tried to run along it. We sensed that this was only for the
chosen few, and only in our secret dreams did we ever repeat his exploit.
...In the vision of Christ walking across the water there is something
of the charlatanism of the Grand Inquisitor. What we see is people being
lured into religion by means of a miracle. But the operation would have been
equally successful if Christ had turned the pebbles on the shore into gold
coins before the eyes of those fishermen.
There was nothing spiritual in his walking the waters because he had
nothing to overcome. He could walk on water because he was incorporeal or
because he was held up with an invisible thread by the Chief Designer. So
all he had to do was walk the waters in a Worthy Way, with the kind of
modest dignity with which those elected to the presidium mount the platform
at meetings.
Our Yura was quite a different case. There he stands on that
cross-beam. He is preparing himself for an heroic exploit, for a man-made
miracle. His whole figure, the aggressive thrust of his body, the bunching
of his limbs as if for a spring, the concentration in his face, all express
the fierce contest between courage and fear. He takes off and for a few
seconds of Olympian victory spirit conquers flesh!
Before our eyes he drove his body from one end of the beam to the other
like an audacious rider forcing his unwilling steed across a foaming
mountain torrent. It was beautiful and we all felt it, although none of us
could have explained why, at the time.
One day Yura suggested to me that we should rob the school cafeteria,
and although we had never done anything of the kind before I agreed without
a second thought. Neither of us felt any pangs of conscience because this
was not our school and because it was also very convenient for burglary,
being next door to our house. The temptation arose from the sausages that,
according to reliable rumours, had been brought to the cafeteria that day.
The plan was simple. We were to break in, eat all the sausages, take
all the change out of the cash-desk and make our getaway. We were not going
to steel any paper money because we knew that it was never left in the till.
Curiously enough, we never considered taking any of the sausages with us; we
simply couldn't imagine that there might be too many. This was not because
in an operation run by my idol with his Tsebelda experience there was no
need to worry on that score, but because our general experience told us that
no one anywhere ever left sausages uneaten. Neither of us had ever heard of
such a thing.
In the afternoon we strolled into the cafeteria to spy out the lie of
the land.
A large bowl festooned with sausages was standing on the windowsill. It
was bathed in a pink radiance from the slanting rays of the evening sun.
Yura stared at this apparition with such sentimental candour that in
the end I had to steer him away because his curiosity was beginning to look
indecent and dangerous.
"It's too much for me," he said, taking a deep breath when we stopped
in the corridor by the window.
"What's too much?" I asked quietly.
"When they're burst like that," he replied drawing breath with a
whistling sound, as if he had taken a sausage that was too hot for him.
I felt my mouth watering too.
"Wait till this evening," I whispered, appealing for fortitude.
We left the building.
The best way of entering the school at night was through the
permanently locked back-door. The door had glass panels, but one of them was
"Meksut lives quite near here," he said, pointing with his axe along
the path I had been thinking of taking.
He started telling me the way, interrupting himself now and then to
marvel yet again at how close this Meksut fellow lived and how simple it was
to get there. All I gathered in the end was that I had to go down the path.
I was so thankful to have met him and to hear that Uncle Meksut lived so
close, that I didn't ask any further questions. The man called his dog. I
heard its panting in the darkness, then the sleek powerful body shot out of
the bushes. The dog ran up to its master, remembered me in passing and gave
me another quick sniff all over--the way they check a passport when they're
sure it's all in order--and squatted down, with its tail beating on the
grass.
"You're very close here, it's almost within shouting distance," he
said. And he went on his way, still apparently thinking aloud and rejoicing
in my good luck. The dog bounded on ahead, the man's footsteps died in the
stillness and I was left alone.
I set off along the path with its dense thickets of hazel-nut and
blackberry. In places the bushes joined over the path and I had to duck
under them, holding them up with my stick. Even so, the wet branches
sometimes caught me from behind and the chilly dew made me start. After a
time the bushes parted and it grew much lighter. I came out into the open
and found myself in a cemetery, gleaming pallidly in the white light of the
moon.
Cold with fear, I remembered passing this cemetery once before, but
that had been in the daytime and it had made no impression on me whatever. I
recalled an apple tree I had stripped of a few apples. It was still there
and, although it now seemed quite different, I tried to recover the carefree
attitude of the day when I had been knocking down apples. But even this did
not help. The tree stood motionless in the light of the moon with its
dark-blue leaves and pale-blue apples and I crept past it as quietly as I
could.
The cemetery was like a dwarf city with its iron railings, the little
green gardens of the graves, toy-like palaces small benches, and wooden and
iron roofs. It was as though death had only made the people here much
smaller and much more vicious and dangerous, and they were still living here
in their quiet, sinister way.
Beside some of the graves there were stools with wine and food on them.
On one there was even a lighted candle shielded by a glass jar with the
bottom knocked out. I knew it was the custom to place food and drink by a
grave, but this only made me all the more frightened.
The crickets were chirping. The moonlight whitened the already white
gravestones and this made the black shadows even blacker, and they lay on
the ground like heavy motionless boulders.
I tried to pass the graves as quietly as possible but my stick tapped
thunderously on the hard soil. I tucked it under my arm but then there was
no sound at all, and this was even more frightening. All at once I noticed
the lid of a coffin leaning against the cemetery fence and, just beside it,
a freshly dug grave that had not yet been enclosed.
I felt an icy chill creep up my spine, reach the back of my head and
clutch painfully at my scalp, making my hair stand on end. I walked on,
keeping my eyes fixed on the coffin lid which was gleaming reddishly in the
light of the moon.
I was sure that the dead man had climbed out of his grave propped the
coffin lid against the fence and was now walking round somewhere close by
or, perhaps, was hiding behind the coffin lid, waiting for me to turn or run
away.
I therefore walked on without quickening my pace, feeling that the main
thing was not to take my eyes off the coffin lid. Grass rustled round my
feet. I realised that I had left the path but I kept walking, still with my
eyes fixed on the coffin lid. Eventually I might have wrung my own neck if I
had not suddenly felt myself falling into a deep hole.
Now it's started, I thought, as the moon streaked across the sky and I
landed on something white and furry that wriggled out from under me. I lay
on the ground with my eyes closed and awaited my doom. I sensed that the
thing was near and that I was completely at its mercy. Scenes from the tales
of hunters and shepherds about mysterious encounters in the forest or
strange occurrences in cemeteries went flashing through my head.
The thing, however, was in no hurry. My fear became unbearable and with
all the strength I could muster I forced open my eyes.
It was as if I had suddenly switched on a light. At first I could see
nothing, then I made out in the darkness something white and unsteady. I
felt that it was watching me closely. The most frightening thing about it
was the way it swayed. Icy shivers kept racing up my spine, bristling the
hair on the back of my head and ricochetting into the tips of my ears.
I don't know how much time passed. Gradually I began to recognise the
smell of freshly dug earth, still warm from the day's sunshine, and another
very familiar, encouraging, almost homely smell. The white thing was still
swaying in the corner, but terror that goes on endlessly ceases to be
terror.
I became aware of a pain in my leg. I had twisted it badly when I fell
and now I wanted to stretch it.
I stared hard at the thing in the corner. Gradually the blurred white
shape began to acquire familiar outlines and eventually I realised that the
ghost had turned into a goat. I could make out in the darkness its beard and
horns. But since I had long been aware that the devil sometimes took the
form of a goat, I was somewhat comforted; clearly this was what had
happened. What I hadn't known was that he could also smell of goat.
I cautiously stretched out my leg and noticed that the thing was also
showing signs of caution. At least it had stopped chewing and was only
swaying.
I kept very still and it began chewing again. I raised my head and saw
the edge of the hole into which I had fallen rimmed with moonlight, and a
transparent strip of sky with a small star in the middle. A tree rustled
overhead and it was strange to think of the breeze that must be stirring up
there. I looked up at the star and that, too, seemed to sway in the breeze.
There was a light thud; an apple had fallen off the tree. I gave a start and
realised that it was getting cold.
A boyish instinct told me that inaction could not be a sign of strength
and since the thing, whatever it was, merely went on chewing and staring
through me, I decided to make an attempt at escape.
I rose cautiously to my feet and realised that even with a jump I could
not reach the edge of the hole. My stick was still up there and it might not
have been much help anyway.
The hole was rather narrow and I tried to climb out by pushing my hands
and feet against opposite walls. Grunting with exertion, I managed to raise
myself a little but the leg I had twisted gave way and I flopped to the
bottom again.
When I fell, the thing scrambled up and jumped aside in terror. That
was an unwise move on its part. I grew bolder and went over to it. It
cowered silently in its corner. I cautiously put out my hand to its face. It
brushed my hand with its lips, breathing warmly over it, smelled it and with
a shake of its head gave out a real goatish snort.
This finally convinced me that it was no devil but simply another
creature in trouble like myself. In my time as a herd-boy I had often known
goats to climb into places from which they could not find a way out.
I sat down on the ground beside the goat, put my arms round its neck
and tried to get warm by pressing against its warm belly. I tried to make it
sit down but it stubbornly insisted on standing. Eventually, however, it
began to lick my hand, at first cautiously, then with increasing confidence,
and its firm, springy tongue scraped roughly at my wrist, licking off the
salt. The rough, ticklish sensation was pleasant and I did not draw my hand
away. My goat began to enjoy itself and soon started plucking at the cuff of
my shirt with its sharp teeth, but I rolled up my sleeve and gave it a fresh
place to graze.
It took a long time, licking the salt off my arm, and I huddled against
its warm body and felt that even if the blue, moonlit face of a corpse were
to appear over the edge of the pit I would merely cuddle up closer to my
goat and not feel too frightened. For the first time in my life I really
appreciated what it meant to have another living creature for company.
In the end the goat grew tired of licking my arm and unexpectedly sat
down beside me and resumed its chewing.
It was still as quiet as ever but the moonlight had become even more
transparent and the star had moved to the edge of the strip of sky. It was
even cooler now.
Suddenly I heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching and my heart began
to race madly.
The hoofbeats grew more and more distinct and sometimes I caught the
clink of a metal shoe on a stone. I was afraid the horseman would turn aside
but the noise grew steadily louder and I could soon hear the laboured
breathing of the horse and the creak of the saddle. Suspense rooted me to
the spot but, when the hoofbeats were almost overhead, I jumped up and began
to shout:
"Hi! Hi! I'm here!"
The horse stopped and in the stillness I could detect the bony click of
its teeth as it champed at the bit. Then a man's voice called hesitantly:
"Who's there?"
I strained upward and shouted, "It's me! A boy!"
The man was silent for a time, then I heard, "What boy?"
The man's voice was firm and suspicious. He was afraid of a trap.
"I'm a boy from the town," I said, trying to speak in a living and not
a corpse-like voice with the result that my voice sounded repulsively
unnatural.
"How did you get down there?" the man asked harshly, still fearing a
trap.
"I fell in. I was on my way to Uncle Meksut's," I said hastily, afraid
that he would go on without listening to any more.
"To Meksut? Why didn't you say so before?"
I heard him dismount and throw the reins over the fence. The sound of
his footsteps came nearer but before he got to the edge of the hole he
stopped.
"Grab hold of this!" I heard, and a rope swished through the air and
dangled in front of me.
I took hold of it, then remembered the goat. It was standing all by
itself in the corner. Without a second thought I wound the rope round its
neck, quickly tied a double knot and shouted, "Pull!"
As the rope grew taut, the goat shook its head and reared on its hind
legs. I grabbed its hindquarters and heaved for all I was worth because the
rope was cutting into its neck. But as soon as its horned head, bathed in
moonlight, appeared over the edge of the hole, the man cried out in what
seemed to me a goat-like voice, dropped the rope and ran. The goat crashed
down beside me, bleating plaintively and I let out a yell of pain because in
falling it had trodden on my foot with its hoof. What with the pain, the
disappointment and weariness I burst into tears. Tears had been close enough
already, almost on a level with my eyes. Now they streamed forth so
abundantly that in the end I was frightened by them and stopped crying. I
raged at myself for not telling the man about the goat, but then I
remembered his horse and decided that he was bound to come back for it
sooner or later.
After about ten minutes I heard his stealthy footsteps. I knew he
wanted to unhitch his horse and make off.
"That was a goat," I said loudly and calmly.
Silence.
"That was a goat," I repeated, trying not to change my tone.
I felt he had stopped and was listening.
"Whose goat?" he asked suspiciously.
"I don't know. It fell in before me," I replied, realising that this
did not sound very convincing.
"You don't seem to know anything," he said. Then he asked, "What
relation are you to Meksut?"
Somewhat incoherently I began to explain our relationship (everyone is
related in Abkhazia). I felt that he was beginning to trust me and tried not
to reawaken his suspicions. Shouting up to him from below, I explained why I
was visiting Uncle Meksut.
It made me realise just how difficult it is to offer excuses for your
behaviour when you have both feet in a freshly dug grave.
In the end he came up to the grave and peered cautiously over the edge.
His unshaven face wore an expression of disgust, strangely intensified by
the moonlight. It was obvious that he disliked both the place where he was
and the place where he was looking. I had the impression he was trying to
hold his breath.
I tossed him the rope, which was still attached to the goat. He gripped
it and heaved. I tried to help from below. The goat resisted foolishly, but
as soon as we had lifted it a little the man seized its horn and, expressing
violent disgust in every movement, dragged the animal out of the grave.
Obviously he was still finding the whole incident very unpleasant.
"You Godforsaken creature," he said, and I heard him put his boot into
the goat. The goat gulped and probably tried to run away because the man
grabbed the rope and tugged.
Then he leaned right into the grave, keeping one hand on the edge,
seized my wrist with the other and heaved me crossly to the surface. As he
heaved I tried to make myself lighter because I was afraid of getting some
of the same medicine as the goat. He planted me on the ground beside him. He
was a big, heavily built man, and my wrist felt sore from his grip.
For a moment he surveyed me in silence, then his face broke into a
sudden smile and his big hand came out and ruffled my hair.
"You gave me a proper scare with that goat of yours. I thought I was
pulling out a human being, and then that horned devil appears!"
My spirits rose at once. We went over to the horse, which was still
standing patiently by the fence.
The goat followed us on the end of the rope. When we reached the horse,
it stamped nervously and squinted at the goat.
A tasty smell of horse sweat, saddle leather and maize struck my
nostrils. He must have been taking his maize to the mill, I thought, and
remembered that the rope had also smelled of maize. He helped me or rather
hoisted me into the saddle. I remembered my stick but dared not go back for
it. Besides, the moment I tried to get into the saddle the horse turned its
head and snapped at my leg. I just managed to draw it away in time.
Its master led it away from the fence, gathered up the reins and,
without letting go of the rope attached to the goat, heaved his massive body
into the saddle. I felt the horse's back sag under him and he crushed me
against the saddle bow as he settled himself in the saddle and flicked the
reins.
The thought of the goat behind us made me rather ashamed. In the grave
we had been on equal terms, but now I was in a privileged position.
The horse trotted along at a lively pace, trying to break into a
canter, stamping its feet with pent-up energy and irritation at having a
goat trailing behind it.
Lulled by the muffled clip-clop of hoofs and the gentle rocking of the
saddle, I fell into a doze, awakening only when the path led down a slope
and the weight of the rider behind crushed me against the saddle bow, so
that I had to push for all I was worth to protect my stomach. When we were
climbing, however, I would nestle back comfortably on his chest, drowsily
aware of the horse's quivering forelock, sensitive ears and monotonously
swaying neck.
The horse halted and I became fully awake again. We were standing by a
fence beyond which I glimpsed a broad, tidy yard and a large house, built on
high wooden piles. There were lights in the windows. It was Uncle Meksut's
house.
"Hi there, where's the master?" the owner of the horse shouted and lit
a cigarette. He looped the goat's tether round a stake in the fence without
knotting it.
In answer to his shout a door opened and we heard a voice call, "Who's
there?"
The voice was firm and sharp. People in our parts usually answer an
unfamiliar shout at night like that, to show they are ready for any
encounter.
Uncle Meksut--I recognised his stocky, broadshouldered figure at
once--came down the steps and walked in our direction, shoving away the
dogs, and peering at us keenly from a distance.
I remember his surprise and fright when he recognised me.
"Wait till you hear it all," said my rescuer, plucking me out of the
saddle and trying to pass me straight across the fence to Uncle Meksut.
But I resisted and, clutching a stake in the fence, slid down into the
yard by myself. He unwound the goat's tether.
"Where's the goat from?" Uncle Meksut asked, looking even more
surprised.
"Quite a miracle, eh!" said the horseman cheerfully and mysteriously,
and glanced at me as if we were equals.
"Get off your horse and come inside!" Uncle Meksut urged, taking his
bridle.
"Thanks, Meksut, but I just can't manage it," the horseman replied with
an air of haste, though up to now he had shown no sign of being in a hurry.
In accordance with Abkhazian custom Uncle Meksut urged him at great
length to partake of his hospitality, now showing offence, now pleading, now
making fun of the allegedly urgent business that was preventing him from
staying. All the time he kept glancing now at me, now at the goat, sensing
that there was some connection between my arrival and the goat but unable to
grasp what.
At length the horseman rode away with the goat behind him and Uncle
Meksut took me into the house, clicking his tongue in astonishment and
shouting at the dogs.
In a room lighted not so much by the lamp as by the brightly blazing
fire, there were both men and women seated round a table laid with snacks
and fruit. I spotted my mother at once and saw her face turn slowly pale
despite the crimson reflection of the flames. The guests jumped to their
feet with gasps and exclamations of alarm.
One of my aunts from town, on hearing of the purpose of my visit, began
to fall slowly backwards as if in a faint. But since no one in the country
understood such things and no one showed any intention of saving her, she
checked herself halfway and pretended she had a crick in the back. Uncle
Meksut did all he could to reassure the women, proposed a toast to victory,
to their sons, and to everyone's safe return home. He was a man of great
hospitality and his house was always full of guests. Down here in the valley
they had already brought in the grape harvest and the season of long toasts
was just beginning.
Mother sat in silence, without touching any of the food or drink. I
felt sorry for her and wanted to comfort her, but the role I had chosen for
myself would allow no such display of weakness.
I was given a plate of steaming hominy and chicken, and a glass of wine
was poured for me. Mother shook her head reproachfully but Uncle Meksut said
that the wine was too young to be real wine yet and I wasn't a baby any
longer.
I related my adventures and, as I sucked the last of the chicken bones,
felt a delicious drowsiness creeping over me, sweet and golden as the young
wine itself. I fell asleep at the table.
The next day I learned that it was the Moslem custom to bury a man
without any lid on his coffin, presumably to facilitate his resurrection.
The stray goat turned out to be one of the collective farm's. The freshly
dug grave into which we had fallen had been dug by mistake.
Mother returned from Baku about ten days later. My brother, it turned
out, had not been wounded at all. He had just been feeling homesick and
wanted to see one of the family before being sent to the front. And, of
course, he got what he wanted. Always up to some trick was my brother.
--------
He used to sit in front of me in class, so during lessons I would
admire the manly shape of the back of his head and his broad shoulders. I
think it was that indomitable back of his head that I liked first, before I
liked him.
When he turned to dip his pen in our inkwell, I was able to study his
profile with its high-bridged nose, thick, close-knit eyebrows and cold grey
eyes.
He always turned slowly, as a warrior in the saddle turns to observe
any lagging members of his troop. Sometimes he would grant me an
understanding smile, as though he had felt my gaze and wanted me to know
that he appreciated my devotion and yet would prefer me to exercise a little
moderation, a little restraint in admiring the back of his head,
particularly as he had other merits besides his massive cranium.
In his movements in general I felt a solidity not usually found in
thirteen- or fourteen-year-olds. But it was not the fake solidity affected
by the swots and the beginners of the bootlicking tribe. It was the real
thing that was to be found only in grown-up people.
True solidity, I would say, is the feeling of distinction a man
acquires from being aware of a certain overabundance of physical weight in
his every movement.
Now, if such a person enters a room and, let us say, sits down at your
festive table and, having seated himself, casually motions the suddenly
agitated guests to be seated as well, what, dear comrades, is the
characteristic feature of this situation?
Its characteristic feature is that this superabundance of physical
weight imparts to his gesture such gravity that he restores your guests to
their places almost without looking at them at all, from which it follows
that they were quite right to have become agitated in the first place.
Because how could they have failed to become agitated on realising how
morally lightweight and insecure they were in face of this extra weighty but
indubitably pacifying gesture.
So, during the movement of this hand which, though not too sweeping,
is, happily, sufficiently prolonged, those at table who for one reason or
another were not alerted in time manage to rouse themselves and now with a
certain belated jubilance (like everything belated, exaggerated) jump to
their feet and join in the general agitation so that they can subside with
everyone else in obedience to the movement of the hand, which seems to say,
"It's quite all right, comrades, I'll just squeeze into a corner
somewhere..."
"What a man!" the assembled guests intimate with a delighted murmur
and, having murmured, relax into a state of exhausted happiness.
That is what true solidity is!
And he, my idol, possessed such true solidity, that is to say, he was
constantly aware of this extra physical weight in every movement.
Admittedly, this weight was the direct result of a muscle development far
beyond his years and not an expression of the burdens of authority, as in
adults.
Yes, my idol was stronger than anyone not only in our class, but in
what for us at that age was the whole conceivable world. And yet at first
glance there was nothing special about him--just a stocky lad, by no means
tall even for our class.
"That's for smoking, I don't grow because I smoke," he would say in the
break, pulling at the home-made cigarette concealed in his fist, and it
sounded rather as if this was divine punishment for his self-indulgence,
although since the punishment atoned for the sin he was still able to speak
of it calmly and go on smoking.
We lived in the same street. His name was Yura Stavrakidi and he was
the youngest son in the large family of a house painter. He was always
helping his father, particularly in summer. The painter's eldest son was by
that time in the process of becoming an intellectual. Already a full-grown
lad, he was in his last year at an industrial technical school, wore a
neck-tie and could talk for hours about international politics. Yura and his
father, one might say, were helping him to hold on to his intellectual
laurels. But even he would now and then discard the neck-tie, change his
clothes, take a paint brush and go off to work with his father and brother.
When they returned from work in the evening he would spend a long time
washing in the yard. Yura would pour the water for him and, as I would be
waiting for Yura, I had to put up with this lengthy procedure, which was not
so easy.
It was the usual thing at this time for all those who liked discussing
international events to gather in a corner of the yard.
Yura's brother, instead of getting on with washing himself, having his
supper and going out to sit with them--if he couldn't do without this thing
of his--would start bandying all kinds of ideas back and forth while
washing, which endlessly prolonged the business and made me wild with
impatience. Apparently in the course of the day's work he had grown hungry
for this kind of talk because it certainly did not go down with his father,
whose constant contact with bare walls during his long life as a painter had
almost deprived him of the ability to converse.
All his life he had been busy silently daubing paint on walls and
presumably had produced his children in the same silent fashion. And the
more children he produced, the more walls he had to paint, so there had been
no time left for talking; he had to get on with mixing his paints and
obtaining enough whitewash. What was there to talk about anyhow! I think if
he could have had his way he would have taken all those ranting and raving
politicians and puttied up their mouths, ears and eyes, painted them from
head to foot and left them standing deaf, dumb and blind, like those plaster
statues we have in our parks. Or he might even have walled them up
somewhere, and he would certainly have painted that wall so well that if you
scraped it for a lifetime you would never discover the place where they were
hidden. Because no matter how many children you brought into the world there
would never be enough for their filthy meat-grinder, and no matter how many
walls you painted your work would all be wasted because one air-raid would
knock down so many, paint and all, that thousands of builders working all
the year round still would not be able to restore them.
All this was written on his toil-worn, gloomy face, the face of an old
workman, and it had taken a tremendous war with all its disasters and
hardships for this thought to emerge so that it could be seen by all, to
make it show through his gloominess, just as a great fresco shows through on
a neglected monastery wall.
Unfortunately, neither we children, nor Yura's brother, nor any of the
other devotees of international affairs had any notion of this at the time.
Yura's brother would go without bread as long as you let him hold forth on
the subject of collective security, the machinations of the Vatican or
something of that kind.
It always seemed to me unfair that he should start holding forth about
all this even before he had finished washing and changing.
Besides, while he was slapping water on his face he would sometimes
fail to hear what other people were saying and, having got everything wrong,
have to ask them all over again. Or else he would scoop up some water in his
hands and, instead of splashing it on his face, suddenly stop half way and
listen while the water trickled through his fingers without his noticing it,
and then he would slap his cheeks with empty hands and look suspiciously at
Yura as though Yura was to blame for what had happened and for gathering all
these talkers round him.
Sometimes, with his face all soapy, he would open his eyes, and then
get into a temper because he thought he was being misunderstood whereas, in
fact, as I could see perfectly well, it was simply the soap stinging his
eyes. Or perhaps he would be asked a question just when he had given himself
a silent slap on the back of the head indicating the spot where Yura was to
pour next and while Yura was pouring, the others would stand round like
stuffed dummies, waiting for the brother to raise his dripping head and
regale them with his answer.
He went on talking while towelling himself, and even while pulling on
his shirt he never stopped asking questions and giving answers.
Sometimes it was simply ridiculous. Before he got his head out of the
shirt he would start muttering away inside it, as though we could understand
what he was muttering about. And sometimes he couldn't get his head out at
all because he had forgotten to unbutton the collar. But would he unbutton
it himself? Oh no, this darling of the family would wait like a baby to be
unbuttoned by Yura and meanwhile go on jabbering in this strange
head-in-a-tent attitude.
He was just like the mad photographer who came to take pictures of us
at school. Having pulled his black hood over his head, he would start
muttering remarks that we couldn't understand, or at least we pretended we
couldn't because we felt we had a right not to. Who likes being talked at
from under a hood anyway? In the end he would flap out from under its folds
and, having recovered his breath, issue all kinds of instructions about who
should sit where, then take another gulp of air and dive under the hood
again.
Similarly Yura's brother would in the end--admittedly only with Yura's
help--get his head through the shirt and go off to his friends, tucking his
shirt-tails in as he went. That, thank goodness, he did himself.
But then Yura's mother would appear on the porch and call out in Greek
that supper was ready and he would ignore her and so persistently that she
would begin to scold him and shout at him to finish his "jabber-jabber
conference".
Who knows, perhaps this expression was coined by her, but to this day
that is what the people of our town call any long spell of talking. At one
time this expression used to irritate me. It struck me as inaccurate and
incomplete. Its meaning seemed to flop about in a much too large envelope of
sound. But later I realised that this flopping about is indeed the highest
form of accuracy, because even in the actual phenomena of life the concept
an expression implies flops about just as uselessly. Luckily, as time went
on, Yura's brother returned less and less frequently to his father's
profession and I seldom had to suffer their joint washing operation while
waiting for Yura.
I can still see the long shrivelled figure of Yura's father, his face
overgrown with whitewash-like stubble, and Yura beside him, stripped to the
waist and spattered with whitewash, a long brush over his shoulder. In the
light of the setting sun he looked as magnificent as a young Hercules
walking home from work beside his old father.
When he had washed and eaten his supper, he would come out into the
street, still stripped to the waist as before, and we would all sit together
on the sun-warmed steps of the porch and Yura would tell us about the people
he and his father had been working for that day. His hands would be lying
limply on his knees, his face would be a little pale from fatigue, and I
would relish the pleasure he himself and his every muscle felt from being
still.
If he and his father had been working for a generous employer who knew
how to feed his men well, Yura would go on about what dishes they had been
given and how much he personally had eaten, and how he and his father had
tried to do as good a job as possible just to please their employer.
In summer Yura often visited his Greek relatives in the country. On his
return he would tell us what the life was like there, what they ate and how
much.
"I carried a hundredweight sack all the way from Tsebelda in six
hours," would be his next bit of information. That was his sports news.
"All the way from Tsebelda on foot?" a surprised voice would say. In
such cases there would always be one voice expressing the general surprise.
"Of course," Yura would reply, and then add, "I did eat a loaf of bread
and a kilo of butter on the road."
"How could you eat a kilo of butter, Yura?" the expresser of the
general surprise would ask.
"It's country butter, Greek butter," Yura would explain. "You can eat
it without bread if you like."
But besides his physical strength, what I would now call his games
sense was amazingly well developed too, and showed itself in most unexpected
ways.
There is no need to relate here the well-known case when he got on a
bicycle for the first time and after a push from someone and a couple of
wobbles with the handle bars rode away quite calmly.
The same kind of thing once happened at sea. For some reason Yura
hardly ever swam. Despite his incredible daring I believe he never trusted
the water. He knew how to stay afloat and would swim out a little way in
country style, but then turn back, find the bottom with his feet and walk
ashore. Either it was because he had grown up in a mountain village and not
on the coast, or because, like his ancient compatriot, he could do nothing
without a good foothold, but it was very hard to tempt him out of his depth;
he would swim out a mere five or six metres and then turn back to the shore.
As a person already much inclined to indulge in the simple forms of
pleasure, I could stay in the water for hours and I was, of course,
disappointed by his restrained attitude towards the sea. One day after much
persuasion I got him to go with me to the swimming pool. We undressed and
went up on to the board over the fifty-meter lanes. Among the foppish,
though almost naked, denizens of the pool he looked decidedly out of place
in a pair of shorts that came down to his knees.
He tried to climb down into the water, but I persuaded him to dive. We
decided to swim along together so that I could study his movements, get him
used to swimming out of his depth and in the end teach him something like a
proper modern style.
Yura jumped into the water--feet first, of course. I shall never forget
the expression of confusion combined with a readiness to resist that was
written on his face when he came up. It was the kind of expression a hunted
man might have when leaping out of bed in the middle of the night and
grabbing his gun.
However, having convinced himself that no one was going to pull him
under, he swam off to the opposite end. He swam his usual stern overarm
stroke, turning his head after every thrust, as though guarding his rear.
After waiting a few seconds I dived in after him. I had to tell him not
to turn his head like that.
I had decided to go straight into the crawl after my dive and overtake
him all in one breath, so to speak, without coming up for air.
When I did raise my head out of the water I looked at the lane beside
me, but Yura was not there. He was still in front. The distance between us
had scarcely lessened. He was still turning his head at every stroke and
making good progress.
Working hard with my legs, I switched to the breast stroke but, try as
I would, the gap between us remained the same. I was baffled. His head went
on turning at every sweep of his arm and his eyes gave a grim stare now over
the right shoulder, now over the left.
When I finally reached him he was already resting, or rather waiting
for me, holding on to the bars at the other end of the pool.
"Well, how did I swim?" he asked.
I looked into his grey eyes but found no mockery there.
"Pretty good, but don't keep turning your head," I replied, trying not
to show my heavy breathing, and also clutched the bars for support.
In answer to this he rubbed his neck a little and silently swam away to
the other end. I watched him. The funny way he had of turning his head to
right and left and throwing his arm out too straight diverted attention from
the powerful underwater work of his arms and legs.
He swam like a powerful animal in a strange but manageable environment.
That straight neck and indomitable head jutted proudly out of the water. I
realised that I should never catch up with him on land or sea.
I think my liking for the simple forms of pleasure helped me to
overcome a mean-spirited envy. Anyway, I decided his victory at sea only
proved once again how right I was in my choice of an object of worship.
Not far from our street there was a large and ancient park. In recent
times some sports facilities had been set up there, including a huge
cross-beam on posts to which was fixed a whole system of gymnastic
equipment: a pole, rings ropes and a set of wall-bars. Naturally Yura was
way ahead of us all on every piece of this equipment.
But he, my idol, was not only strong and agile, he was also the boldest
of us all, and this caused me a vague feeling of anxiety.
He would climb up the wall-bars on to the cross-beam itself, sit
astride it for a while, then let go with his hands and carefully stand up.
And then came the miracle of daring.
As we watched with bated breath he would sway gently until the
cross-beam was swaying with him. The posts that held it had been weakened by
the constant pull of the rope, which was used as a swing, so the whole
structure was soon in motion.
When he had got it moving like this, he would suddenly with well timed
steps run quickly along the beam from one end to the other. In the few
seconds it took him to reach the other end the beam would sway so violently
that it looked as if he would lose his balance and fall right off. But he
made it every time.
The top of the cross-beam was no wider than a man's hand and there were
bolts sticking out it, so in addition to everything else he had to be
careful not to trip over them as he ran.
We all breathed with relief when he finally lowered his hands to the
beam and climbed down by way of the wall-bars. This star turn by my idol
never failed to astound the spectators and he always performed it with
maximum risk--always swaying the beam first and always running, never
walking.
I don't know why, but I conceived a desperate desire to try myself out
at this high-altitude trick. I chose a time when none of our crowd were in
the park and climbed the wall-bars. While I still had a foothold on them,
the beam did not seem so terribly high. But as soon as my feet were on the
beam itself, I felt very high-up and unprotected.
I squatted on my haunches, gripping the beam with both hands, and tried
to gauge the quiet oscillation of the whole system. It was like being on the
back of a sleeping animal. I could feel its breathing and was afraid of
waking it.
At last I let go and straightened up. Trying not to look down, I took
one step and without lifting my other foot from the beam dragged it up to
the first. The whole structure was swaying gently under me. Ahead lay a
narrow green path studded with protruding bolts that I should have to be
careful of as well.
I took another step forward and cautiously drew up the other foot, but
not quite cautiously enough apparently, because the structure came to life
and heaved under me. Trying to keep my balance, I froze to the spot and
looked down.
The ground, red with fallen pine needles and reinforced with exposed
roots, swam beneath me.
"Go back before it's too late," I told myself and gingerly turned my
head. The end of the beam I had just left was quite close, but I realised at
once that I should not be able to turn round. Turning round on such a narrow
ledge would be worse than going forward.
I felt trapped. Either I must sit down astride the beam and ease myself
backwards, or I must continue on my way. Frightened though I was, some inner
force prevented me from making so shameful a retreat. I went forward.
Sometimes, as I began to lose my balance, I thought I had better jump rather
than fall off but somehow I managed to steady myself and go on. I walked
right to the other end and, now afraid that sheer joy might topple me, bent
down and put my arms right round the beam, hugging it and appreciating its
no longer dangerous swaying. It goes without saying that I did not keep my
little exploit a secret from the others. Yura himself looked hard at me,
then offered his congratulations. I repeated the trick several times
afterwards, but my fear grew hardly any less, it was simply that I got used
to the idea of mastering a fear of a certain intensity and mastered it.
It seems to me that in any kind of action the initial fear is so
powerful because it comes as a sensation of stepping into a yawning abyss,
into endless horror. When we overcome this fear, we do not remove the sense
of danger, but find a measure for that which we used to regard as infinite.
The man who finds a measure for non-being will provide us all with the best
antidote for the fear of death.
Some of the others also learned to walk the swaying beam but neither
they nor I ever tried to run along it. We sensed that this was only for the
chosen few, and only in our secret dreams did we ever repeat his exploit.
...In the vision of Christ walking across the water there is something
of the charlatanism of the Grand Inquisitor. What we see is people being
lured into religion by means of a miracle. But the operation would have been
equally successful if Christ had turned the pebbles on the shore into gold
coins before the eyes of those fishermen.
There was nothing spiritual in his walking the waters because he had
nothing to overcome. He could walk on water because he was incorporeal or
because he was held up with an invisible thread by the Chief Designer. So
all he had to do was walk the waters in a Worthy Way, with the kind of
modest dignity with which those elected to the presidium mount the platform
at meetings.
Our Yura was quite a different case. There he stands on that
cross-beam. He is preparing himself for an heroic exploit, for a man-made
miracle. His whole figure, the aggressive thrust of his body, the bunching
of his limbs as if for a spring, the concentration in his face, all express
the fierce contest between courage and fear. He takes off and for a few
seconds of Olympian victory spirit conquers flesh!
Before our eyes he drove his body from one end of the beam to the other
like an audacious rider forcing his unwilling steed across a foaming
mountain torrent. It was beautiful and we all felt it, although none of us
could have explained why, at the time.
One day Yura suggested to me that we should rob the school cafeteria,
and although we had never done anything of the kind before I agreed without
a second thought. Neither of us felt any pangs of conscience because this
was not our school and because it was also very convenient for burglary,
being next door to our house. The temptation arose from the sausages that,
according to reliable rumours, had been brought to the cafeteria that day.
The plan was simple. We were to break in, eat all the sausages, take
all the change out of the cash-desk and make our getaway. We were not going
to steel any paper money because we knew that it was never left in the till.
Curiously enough, we never considered taking any of the sausages with us; we
simply couldn't imagine that there might be too many. This was not because
in an operation run by my idol with his Tsebelda experience there was no
need to worry on that score, but because our general experience told us that
no one anywhere ever left sausages uneaten. Neither of us had ever heard of
such a thing.
In the afternoon we strolled into the cafeteria to spy out the lie of
the land.
A large bowl festooned with sausages was standing on the windowsill. It
was bathed in a pink radiance from the slanting rays of the evening sun.
Yura stared at this apparition with such sentimental candour that in
the end I had to steer him away because his curiosity was beginning to look
indecent and dangerous.
"It's too much for me," he said, taking a deep breath when we stopped
in the corridor by the window.
"What's too much?" I asked quietly.
"When they're burst like that," he replied drawing breath with a
whistling sound, as if he had taken a sausage that was too hot for him.
I felt my mouth watering too.
"Wait till this evening," I whispered, appealing for fortitude.
We left the building.
The best way of entering the school at night was through the
permanently locked back-door. The door had glass panels, but one of them was