The Goatibex Constellation

III

The bus sped smoothly and powerfully along the highway. On the right side of the road, beyond the green gardens and small white houses, one could catch a glimpse of the sea, which looked warm even from the distance. It seemed to be saturated with a soothing abundance of summer heat and of swimmers — mostly girls.

On our left green foothills drifted by, covered with fields of ripening corn and tangerine trees. Every once in a while one also saw fields of lop-eared little tung trees dotted with clusters of fruit.

During the war the soldiers of a construction battalion stationed in these parts had picked and eaten the fruit of the tung tree, which looks something like unripe apples but in fact is terribly poisonous. They had been strictly forbidden to touch the fruit, but they ate it anyway. These were hungry times, of course, and probably they thought the poisonous business had been dreamed up just to scare them. Usually it was enough to pump out their stomachs, though there were instances where the poisoning was fatal.

At times a light breeze — so unexpected that it seemed to have been stirred up by the bus itself as it rounded the curve — would bring with it a distant scent of musty fern, of sunbaked manure, and the milky fragrance of ripening corn. In all of this there was something so sweetly and sadly reminiscent of my childhood, of the village and my native land, that I could not help asking myself why it is that smells wield such great power over us. Why is it that there is no memory which can evoke the past with such intensity as the familiar smells which we associate with it? Perhaps the secret lies in their uniqueness — in the fact that we cannot recall a smell in the absence of the smell itself or, in other words, cannot recreate it in our imagination. And when a smell is recreated in its natural form, it forces to the surface everything that was once associated with it. Visual and auditory impressions, on the other hand, are so frequently evoked through memory that perhaps for this very reason they eventually become dulled.

The passengers rode along on their soft, springy seats, rocking gently to the motion of the bus. The top of the bus was covered with a tinted-blue glass which turned the already blue sky into an incredibly rich and intense shade of blue. It was as if the glass were showing the sky how it should look, and the passengers how to look at it.

This particular bus had been turned over to the Public Transportation Office only recently. In the past it had transported foreign tourists around the city, and sometimes I used to catch a glimpse of it parked in front of the Botanical Gardens, the old fortress or some other scenic spot.

On this occasion it was filled with kolkhoz women on their way home from the city. Each of them carried a tightly stuffed bag or basket from which protruded the invariable cluster of bubliki-thick, ring-shaped rolls. Not without pride some of them also clasped Chinese thermos bottles, which reminded one simultaneously of a prize sports cup and an artillery shell.

Whole mountain ranges drifted slowly by on our left. The highest and most distant of them were covered with the first snow of the season, and their peaks glistened brightly against the horizon. The snow must have fallen the previous night, since these peaks had been bare the day before.

The mountains closer to us were covered with forests and shaded a dark blue. They were a long way away from the snow-covered peaks.

Suddenly, at a turn in the road and on a level with these closer mountains I saw a ridge of bare rocks. At the sight of them my heart contracted with fear and delight, for just below lay our village. As a child I had found these rocks terribly sinister and mysterious and had never ventured up to them, even though they were quite close — along a difficult route, to be sure. And now, reflecting on all the places I had been in my life, I suddenly regretted that I had never once visited these rocks.

Every summer from earliest childhood I had spent several months at my grandfather’s house in the village. And always when I was up there in the mountains, I felt homesick — not so much for home itself as for the city. How I longed to return to the city and inhale once again that peculiarly city smell of dust fused with the odor of gasoline and rubber. I find it difficult to understand now, but in those days I would gaze nostalgically in the direction of the setting sun, comforted by the knowledge that our city lay there to the west, just beyond the soft and rounded contours of the mountain. And all the while I would be counting the days till the end of vacation.

Then, when we would finally return home to the city, I remember the sensation of extraordinary lightness in my legs as I took my first joyful steps on the asphalt pavement. At the time, I attributed this sensation to the smoothness of paved city streets, but it was probably due more than anything else to my endless walks along mountain paths, to the fresh air of the mountains, and to the simple and nutritious food we ate in the village.

Nowadays, no matter where I am, I never feel a trace of that eager and joyous longing for the city. On the contrary, I have begun to miss my grandfather’s house more and more. Perhaps this is because I can no longer return to it: the old people have passed away and all their children have moved to the city, or at least closer to it. But in those years when the house still belonged to our family I was always too busy to spend much time there. It was as if I were keeping it in reserve, to be visited sometime in the future. And now that there’s no one there to visit, I cannot help feeling deprived, as if I had somehow been cut off from my roots.

Even though I seldom visited my grandfather’s house, it helped me from afar by its very existence. The smoke from its hearth, the generous shade of its trees — everything about it made me bolder and more self-confident. I was almost invulnerable because a part of my life, my roots, lived and thrived in the mountains. And when a man is aware of his roots and has some sense of continuity in his life, he can direct it more wisely and generously. And it is harder to rob or deprive him, because not all of his wealth is carried on his person.

I miss my grandfather’s house with its large green yard. And I miss the old apple tree, long overgrown with a hardy grapevine, and the walnut tree under whose green canopy we would lie stretched out on a tanned ox or ibex hide during the hottest part of the day.

How many unripe apples we shook from the old apple tree, and how many unripe walnuts with their delicate kernels and thick, green skins not yet hardened into shells.

I miss the large, roomy kitchen of my grandfather’s house, with its earthen floor, its warm, broad hearth and the long, heavy bench placed in front of the hearth. It was here that we would sit in the evenings, listening to endless tales of hunting expeditions, of treasures unearthed in ancient fortresses, and of our own fearless mountaineers who fought against the Russian tsars. On this same bench my uncle would sit cutting tobacco with his sharp hatchet. After a while he would seize a burning coal from the hearth and throw it into a heap of freshly cut tobacco. Then, with slow satisfaction he would stoke this smoking heap, making sure that it became thoroughly dried and saturated with the sweet aroma of wood smoke.

I miss the women’s evening calls from hilltop to hilltop, from valley to mountain, and from mountain to valley. How lonely and pure is the sound of a woman’s voice in the cool of the evening!

Just before sunset the chickens would remind us that they had, after all, been born to fly. First they would begin their restless cackling; then, eyeing the branches of the fig tree, they would suddenly fly upward, only to miss their mark and fall back to earth. After a second try they would finally reach the desired branch and settle in place behind the angrily squawking golden rooster.

At about this time my aunt would come out from the kitchen with a pail clanging in her hand. She would cross the yard with a light, nimble gait, stopping on her way to pick up a dry branch with which to chase away the calf. As she approached the cow pen, she would be greeted by questioning moos, while from under the elevated corn granary the baby goats would be heard, as noisy and playful as schoolchildren.

Before long Grandfather or one of the other men would appear with the rest of the goats, driving them home from pasture. Herded together in a noisy throng, the goats would come pouring into the yard, their stomachs bulging curiously to one side. Full of good spirits, the males would rear up on their hind legs, only to fall back, jostling and colliding with their neighbors and eventually entangling themselves in a welter of horns. And whenever they played like this, we knew that the grazing had been good.

Then the baby goats would be let out, so the nursing could begin. The kids would go running up to their mothers, who would assume an expression of foolish vigilance, not wishing to confuse their own offspring with someone else’s — which they nonetheless did. But it was all the same to the kids — they would greedily attach themselves to the first udder that came along. Only after several eager tugs at the nipple would the mother recognize her own offspring and then either push the hungry mouth away or grow calm and contented, as if the pain caused by her own offspring were somehow different from that caused by someone else’s.

As the years went by, there came to be fewer and fewer of these goats — and fewer cows too. We even began feeling a shortage of milk at home — of that same milk which, according to my grandfather, had been so plentiful in past summers that they had not had time to process it. And now this milk was all gone, and no one knew where it had disappeared to.

I remember our attic and the handwoven rug on the attic wall. Embroidered on the rug was an enormous bushy-browed deer with sad eyes and a feminine face. In the background of the rug, behind the deer, was a tiny little man. This little man stood in a hunched position and was taking aim at the deer with cruel zeal. Even as a child I could tell that this little man resented the deer and could not forgive it for being so large when he, the man, was so small. No doubt it would have been as impossible for the little man to forgive this difference in size as it would have been to change it — to make the little man large and the deer small.

And although the deer was not looking at the man, one could tell by its sad eyes that it knew exactly who he was and what he was doing. And the deer was so enormous that the man could not possibly help hitting it. The deer knew this too, but had nowhere to hide; it was so big that it could be seen from every side. In the beginning it had probably tried to flee, but now it realized that there was no escape from this hunched little man.

I would often gaze at this handwoven rug, and each time I looked at it, I was always filled with love for the deer and hatred for the hunter. And more than anything else I hated the cruel zeal of his hunched shoulders.

I miss the feel of warm muslin sheets which, after hanging all day on the porch, exude the fresh, sunny fragrance of summertime.

We children always had to go to bed before the grownups, and as we lay upstairs listening to their voices coming from the kitchen, we would also hear the voice of our own inner fears, which were somehow mysteriously bound up with the darkness of the room, the pensive creaking of the walls and, staring down from these walls, the portraits of deceased relatives, now fading away in the twilight.

And I miss even the walls of my grandfather’s house, with their chestnut beams naively papered with posters, cheap reproductions, and newspaper and magazine pages. The latter dated back to the nineteen-twenties and thirties and occasionally contained some interesting items. And what fun I had reading those pages, either lying supine on the floor or standing up on a chair or couch. And sometimes, unable to restrain myself, I would tear off a particular page so that I could turn it over and read the continuation on the other side. And before long I had read each and every wall in my grandfather’s house.

And what those walls did not contain!

An enormous oleograph of Napoleon abandoning the burning city of Moscow: horsemen in cocked hats, the walls of the Kremlin, and in the background a fiery glow stretching the length of the horizon.

Some pre-Revolutionary pictures on a religious theme: Christ ensconced in the clouds and wearing sandals which were laced with thongs and somehow reminiscent of our Caucasian rawhide moccasins.

Skillfully manouevering his prancing steed, the Archangel Gabriel slays the loathsome dragon. And right beside him, our own Soviet posters on anti-religious and agricultural themes. One of these posters I remember very well. A peasant stands at one end of a bridge which has suddenly opened up as if from some Biblical curse, and with hands thrown up in despair he watches as his horse and cart plunge downward through the gaping hole. And beneath this instructive picture appears the no less instructive caption: “If you’d thought to insure for a rainy day, at a moment like this you’d be okay!”

I never found this peasant very convincing. There was something too womanish in his reaction to the situation. The horse had barely fallen through, and yet there he was, standing idly by, throwing up his hands in despair.

Everything I had observed in real life led me to believe that no peasant would part with his horse so easily, but would do everything in his power to save it. And if, as in this case, he had lost hold of the reins, then at least he would have tried to grab hold of the horse’s tail.

Once when I happened to take a long look at this peasant, I thought I detected a smile peeping out from under his mustache like some small beast of prey peering through the bushes. This smile was so unexpected that it actually startled me. I may have imagined it, of course, but if I did, I was able to do so precisely because I had always felt that there was something false about him.

The picture’s caption was equally ambiguous. I could never quite figure out what was supposed to be insured — the horse or the bridge. I assumed it was the horse, but then the implication would be that the bridge should be left there to collapse, since if it were repaired, there would be no reason to insure the horse.

Perhaps the most touching and profound characteristic of childhood is an unquestioning belief in the rule of common sense. The child believes that the world is rational and hence regards everything irrational as some sort of obstacle to be pushed aside. Even when confronted by the most irrational of circumstances, the child instinctively looks for some underlying element of reason. And not doubting for a moment that it is there, he concludes that it has merely been distorted or hidden from view.

Why this belief in the rationality of things? Perhaps it is due to the fact that in childhood we still feel the throbbing of our mother’s blood which once flowed through our veins and nourished us. And since the world of our mother’s arms was always good to us, it is hardly surprising that we grow up believing in the goodness and rationality of this world. And how indeed could it be otherwise?

The best people, I think, are those who over the years have managed to retain this childhood faith in the world’s rationality. For it is this faith which provides man with passion and zeal in his struggle against the twin follies of cruelty and stupidity.

My grandfather’s house had a reputation for hospitality and was always filled with relatives and numerous other visitors — from various and sundry officials and district Party workers on down to transient shepherds overtaken by bad weather on their annual cattle drive to summer pastures. I myself saw such visitors by the hundreds.

My uncle owned five or six cows and some fifty goats. Most of these animals were registered in the name of some relative, usually a relative from the city. The number of animals which could be owned by a single individual had for some time been restricted by law, and in our part of the country this had resulted in a sudden and mysterious blossoming of fictitious gifts, sales, and purchases.

As far as I can remember, pigs were the only animal whose numbers were not officially restricted. Knowing that the eating of pork was strictly forbidden by Islamic law, the central authorities probably assumed that the Abkhazians would not be likely to accumulate excessive numbers of pigs.

Our peasants tried as best they could to save their animals, but despite all their efforts and the use of every possible stratagem the number of livestock in our region steadily dwindled with each passing year.

And now as I thought of these animals, I suddenly remembered the period during the war when I had stayed longest at my grandfather’s and for six months had had the job of tending my uncle’s goats. How strange, I reflected, that so much time has passed since then — I’ve finished school, the Institute, and am already on my second job — and yet here I am after all these years, once again about to come face to face with these same goats who, like myself, have come up in the world and are now transforming themselves into goatibexes.

I began to recall those long-forgotten days when I was still a boy and goats were still goats and not goatibexes. And as I thought back to this period in my life, one particular evening and its adventures came suddenly to mind.

The year was 1942, and I was living at my grandfather’s house in the mountains. The fear of bombings and, more important, the fear of starvation had driven me into this relatively quiet and well-nourished corner of Abkhazia.

Our home city had been bombed only twice, and probably the Germans had dropped on us the bombs that were meant for more important targets which had been too well protected for them to attack.

After the first bombing there was a mass exodus from the city. The coffeehouse orators sensibly suspended their endless political discussions and withdrew to the outlying villages where for the first time in their lives they began to appreciate the virtues of Abkhazian hominy grits.

The only people to remain in the city were those whose services were indispensable or who had nowhere to go. Since our family didn’t fit into either of these categories, we soon left town along with everyone else.

After prior consultation and deliberation our country relatives parceled us out among them, taking into account our individual needs and capacities.

As a confirmed urbanite my older brother wanted to stay with the relatives whose village lay closest to the city. He got his wish, but from there was soon drafted into the army.

My sister was sent to the family of a distant relative who for some reason or other — undoubtedly his wealth — had always been considered very close to us. As the smallest and least useful member of the family I was sent off to my uncle in the mountains. Mama stayed somewhere midway between us, at the house of her older sister.

At this time my uncle still owned some twenty goats and three sheep, and no sooner had I arrived and begun to get my bearings than I found myself their newly appointed keeper.

Slowly but surely I managed to gain control over this small, obstreperous herd. What united us was the hypnotic power of two age-old expressions: “Heyt!” and “Iyoh!” These words had numerous shades of meaning, depending on how one pronounced them. The goats understood these meanings very well, but sometimes when it was to their advantage, they would confuse them.

The variety of meanings was indeed impressive. For example, if one called out “Heyt! Heyt!” loud and clear, this meant: Graze on to your heart’s content, there’s nothing to be afraid of.

These same sounds could be pronounced in a pedantic and reproachful tone, in which case they meant: You can’t fool me, I can see where you’re off to — or something to this effect. If, on the other hand, one called out “Iyoh! Iyoh!” quickly and abruptly, this was to be interpreted: Danger! Come back!

At the sound of my voice the goats would generally look up, as if trying to figure out just what it was I expected of them this time.

They always grazed with a certain disdainful look on their faces, and at times I could not help being annoyed at the way in which they would carelessly discard one half-chewed branch, only to move greedily on to another. They were capricious and wasteful, whereas we humans had to hoard every crumb. It hardly seemed fair.

Tearing the leaves from the bushes, they would rise up on their hind legs and try to get at the youngest and tenderest leaves, which were usually the farthest from reach. At such moments there was something shamelessly impudent about them, perhaps because now, raised up on their hind legs, they resembled human beings. Much later when I saw depictions of satyrs (probably in the paintings of El Greco), it occurred to me that the artist was using these weird figures to convey the very essence of human shamelessness.

The goats loved to graze on steep, precipitous slopes in close proximity to a mountain stream. I’m convinced that the sound of water whetted their appetites, just as it does our own. And in this regard it would seem no accident that when traveling in the country, we humans usually stop to eat next to a brook or stream. Apart from our need for something to drink, the very sound of running water undoubtedly makes our food seem more succulent and tasty.

The sheep usually brought up the rear and would graze with their heads bent low, as if sniffing the grass. They preferred the open and flatter areas, where I had an easy time keeping an eye on them. If something happened to frighten them, however, they would run off so quickly that it would be impossible to stop them. Their stubby tails would smack against their buttocks as they ran, and this only frightened them all the more. Thus they would continue running at breakneck speed, urged on by each successive wave of fear and agitation. And when they could run no longer, they would finally take refuge in the nearest bushes. Here they would rest for a while, heaving and panting with their mouths thrown open in doglike fashion.

The goats chose to rest in the rockiest and most elevated spots and would lie down wherever they could find a clean and uncluttered piece of ground. The highest spot would generally be occupied by the oldest male, who had terrifying horns and was hoary with age — his yellowed hair hanging in tufts along his sides. One could see that he knew his role in life: he always moved slowly, his long astrologer’s beard swaying with an air of self-importance. And if in a moment of forgetfulness one of the younger males happened to usurp his place, he would calmly approach the young upstart and, without even deigning to look at him, push him away with a sidelong thrust of his horns.

Once a goat happened to disappear from the herd. I wore myself out, running from bush to bush, tearing my clothes on the thorns, and crying myself hoarse. And all to no avail; the goat was nowhere to be found. Later on, as we were returning home, I just happened to look up, and there she was — perched on the thick branch of a wild persimmon tree. Somehow she had managed to clamber up its crooked trunk. Our eyes met and she stared straight at me, but with no sign of recognition. Obviously she had no intention of getting down. I finally pelted her with a stone, and only then did she gracefully jump down and go running up to the herd.

I think goats are the most cunning of all four-legged creatures. I had only to let my mind wander a moment and sometimes they would vanish without a trace, as if swallowed up by the white stones, ferns, and walnut thickets. And how hot and frightened I would become as I ran off in pursuit of them. Lizards would dart like tiny flashes of greening lightning across the narrow, crackling path, and sometimes even a snake would appear at my feet. I would take off like a shot, and all along the bottom of the foot which had just missed stepping on the snake, I would feel the awful sensation of its cold, resilient body. I would keep on running for a long time, my legs still tingling with the giddy and almost exhilarating sensation of fear.

And when I could run no longer, how strange it was to stop and listen to the murmur of the bushes, wondering if perhaps this was where they had hidden; how strange to listen to the rustling of the grasshoppers, to the singing of the larks in the distant, mighty blue, or to the voice of a chance wayfarer passing along the country road which was hidden from view. And how strange to listen to the slow, strong beat of my heart as I breathed in the pungent odor of vegetation wilted by the sun. Oh, the sweet languor of a still summer day!

In good weather I would lie on the grass in the shade of a large alder tree, listening to the familiar drone of our small training planes as they flew over the mountains to where the fighting was going on.

Once as I was tending my uncle’s herd, one of these planes came flying over the nearest ridge with a panic-stricken roar. It plummeted like a stone into the depths of the Kodor Valley and only at the very last minute managed to right itself. Then, without gaining any altitude it continued onward to the coast. Through every nerve of my body I could feel the almost human terror with which it had crossed over the ridge, apparently in a desperate attempt to save itself from a German fighter-bomber. With uncanny speed its shadow had skimmed across the meadow right past me, grazed a tobacco plantation and then, seconds later, could be seen passing far below along the Kodor Delta.

Every once in a while a German plane would fly over at a very high altitude. It could be recognized by its elusive wail which had something in common with the whining of a malarial mosquito. Usually when an enemy plane approached the city, our antiaircraft guns would begin to open fire, and all around it shells would explode in flowerlike clusters. But the plane would pass through them, one and all, as if protected by some magic spell. In fact, not once during the entire course of the war did I ever see one of these planes put out of action.

One of my relatives who had gone to the city to sell some pigs once arrived back with the news that my brother had been wounded. He was lying in a hospital in Baku and apparently could hardly wait for Mama’s arrival. We were all very upset by the news and felt that we must get in touch with Mama as quickly as possible. Since it turned out that I was the only one who could be spared for the trip, I immediately began to make ready.

After the women had filled me up on cheese and hominy grits and Grandfather had provided me with one of his walking sticks, I finally set off, though by now it was already late in the day and the sun was hanging low in the sky, no higher than the treetops. I had all but forgotten the way, or, rather, the exact location of Uncle Meksut’s house where my mother was staying, but I refused to listen to any directions. I was afraid they might change their minds about letting me go.

As best I could remember, I had first to walk through the forest which ran along the crest of the mountain and then to take the loggers’ road which led down from the mountain and eventually reached Uncle Meksut’s village.

Upon entering the forest, I felt as if I had suddenly plunged into a mountain stream. The warm summer day was left behind, and I made my way quickly along the path, breathing in the clean, damp coolness of the forest and listening to the vaguely disquieting rustle of the treetops. And the deeper I penetrated into the woods, the more briskly and energetically I would tap my walking stick against the firmly resilient, root-covered earth.

Out of the corner of my eye I was able to take in the beauty of my surroundings: the charming and unexpected glades covered with bright, downy grass; the silver-gray beeches with their mighty trunks; and the thick chestnut trees whose bases were heaped with last year’s reddish-brown leaves. How I would have like to lie down on these leaves and rest my head on the tree’s huge, moss-covered roots! In the clearings between the trees I would occasionally catch sight of the smoky-green valley and beyond it the sea, suspended between earth and sky like a mirage. Night was beginning to fall.

Suddenly from around a bend in the path there appeared two young girls. They seemed both frightened and pleased to see me. I recognized them as being from the same village, though in this setting there was something strange and unfamiliar about them — something shy and fawnlike. Their heads were lowered and they spoke in hushed, almost apologetic tones. One of them had been carrying her shoes in a bag and now was obviously embarrassed by her bare feet. She stood there scratching one foot with the other, as if trying to conceal at least one of them.

Gradually the girls’ embarrassment communicated itself to me. Unable to think of anything to talk about, I quickly said good-bye. They nodded in farewell and continued quietly, even stealthily, on their way.

Soon afterwards I caught sight of the reddish-yellow road which led to Uncle Meksut’s village. The road lay before me through the darkening trees and from a distance looked like a mountain stream. Happy at the thought of being able to walk on level ground, I quickly started down from the ridge, using my walking stick as a partial brake to avoid crashing into the dusky rhododendron bushes.

I almost fell onto the road. Yet despite the fact that my legs were covered with sweat and trembling from the strain, I immediately felt exhilarated by the smell of gasoline and of road dust, warm and stagnant at the end of the day. Here once again was that peculiarly city smell which had always excited me and now made me suddenly aware of how homesick I was. And although from here it was even farther to the city than from my grandfather’s village, I nonetheless began to imagine that this country road would take me straight into town.

I walked along in the twilight, taking note of the tire tracks beneath my feet and rejoicing whenever I came upon a particularly distinct ribbed pattern. As I continued on my way, the road gradually became lighter, thanks to the enormous amber moon which was beginning to climb out from behind a jagged strip of forest.

During my summers up in the mountains I had spent many an evening gazing at the moon. It was supposed to be inhabited by a shepherd with a herd of white goats, but hard as I tried, I was never able to make out either the shepherd or his herd. Apparently one had to have seen them from earliest childhood. But all I saw when I gazed up at the moon’s cold disk were some jagged, rock-hewn mountains. These mountains always made me feel sad, perhaps because they were so terribly far away and at the same time so similar to our own mountains here on earth.

Right now the moon resembled a round of smoked mountain cheese. With what pleasure I would have nibbled away at a hunk of this cheese, savoring its sharp taste and smoky aroma! And how I would have loved some hot grits along with it!

I hastened my steps. A sparse alder grove ran along both sides of the road, giving way in some places to corn and tobacco fields. The evening was very still; only the tapping of my stick broke the silence. Soon farmhouses began to appear, and I was cheered by their tiny, well-kept yards and by the warm, cozy glow of the fires which could be seen flickering through their half-open kitchen doors.

I listened eagerly to the sound of human voices coming from inside — sometimes faint and muffled, at other times surprisingly distinct.

“Let the dog out,” I heard a male voice.

The kitchen door burst open and a dog suddenly started barking in my direction. I hastened my steps and, looking back, noticed the dark figure of a girl silhouetted in the reddish square of the open door. She stood there motionless, peering into the darkness.

Not wanting to run into any dogs, I made my way past each house as stealthily as possible. Finally I came to a wide clearing, in the middle of which stood a large walnut tree encircled with wooden benches. This was a busy spot during the day, when the villagers would gather around the kolkhoz office and store. But now, in the moonlight, the place seemed empty and forlorn, even frightening.

I remembered that somewhere near the village soviet I needed to turn left from the road onto a path. But when I reached the spot, there turned out to be several paths and I couldn’t for the life of me recall which was the right one.

I stopped before one path which led off into a wild hazel grove, but couldn’t decide whether to take it. I didn’t remember there being any hazel bushes, but perhaps there had been after all. At one moment I would seem to recognize the path by a number of small details: its curve, the ditch that separated it from the road, and the hazel bushes. But then, the next moment it would seem that the ditch and the hazel bushes were not the same and the path itself would appear totally alien and unfamiliar.

As I stood there shifting form one foot to the other and listening to the chirring of the cicadas, my gaze wandered from the charmed stillness of the bushes up to the moon, which by now had risen high in the sky and shone with an almost blinding light, like that of a mirror.

Suddenly something black and glossy skidded onto the path and came running toward me. Before I had a chance to move, a large and powerful dog had thrust its moist nose between my legs and was sniffing me over unceremoniously. Seconds later a man appeared with a hatchet slung over his shoulder. He drove off the dog with such dispatch that I could understand why the animal had been in such a hurry to sniff me. The dog jumped away, then circled and yelped for a while, obviously eager to please its master. Finally it came to a halt by the hazel bushes and began sniffing the tracks of some animal.

The man had a bridle strapped around his middle and was apparently searching for his horse. He walked up to me and looked me over, obviously surprised to see an unfamiliar face.

“Who do you belong to, and what are you doing here?” he asked, quite annoyed at not being able to recognize me. I told him that I was trying to find Uncle Meksut’s house.

“What do you need to see him for?” he asked, now in a tone of happy astonishment. Realizing that it would be hard to get the better of his peasant curiosity, I decided to tell him everything.

Glancing sideways at the dog and trying not to let it out of my sight, I began filling him in on the details, while he for his part kept shaking his head and clicking his tongue. Apparently he felt sorry that a young boy like me had to be involved in such adult matters.

“Well, Meksut lives right near here,” he said, pointing down the path with his hatchet.

He began telling me the way, continually interrupting himself to express his joyful astonishment at how close Meksut’s house was and how easy it was to get to. The only thing I understood from all this was that I had to follow the path. I decided not to question him any further, however, since I was already more than grateful for our encounter and for the knowledge that Meksut’s house was close by.

The man now summoned his dog. I could hear the sound of its breathing as it approached, and seconds later its mighty body leapt forth from behind the bushes. The dog went running up to its master, then dropped back on its haunches and began beating the grass with its tail. Once again reminded of my existence, it gave me another quick sniff, but this time with the perfunctoriness of an official checking an I.D. card which he knows to be in order.

“It’s within shouting distance — just a stone’s throw away,” said the man as he started off. He seemed to be thinking out loud and rejoicing at my good fortune.

The dog rushed ahead, the man’s footsteps faded away, and I remained alone in the darkness.

I made my way along the path, which was overrun with hazel and blackberry bushes. In some places the bushes had locked together above the path, and I had to separate them with my stick. I passed through them as quickly as possible, but even so, the branches sometimes lashed at me from behind and I would shiver from their cold, tingling dampness. I walked along like this for some time until gradually the bushes began to thin out and all of a sudden it grew much lighter. Several minutes later I came onto a clearing and there, stretched out before me, was a cemetery gleaming brightly under the full white moon.

In my fright I recalled that I had once walked past this cemetery, but then it had been broad daylight and I had thought nothing of it. I had even knocked down several apples from a tree. And now as I spied this same tree off to one side, I tried my best to return to the carefree mood of that earlier summer day. But in vain! The tree looked completely different, hulking in the moonlight with its dark-blue foliage and pale-blue apples. I quickly stole past it.

The cemetery resembled a city of dwarfs. Its wrought-iron fencing, the green mounds of its graves, its small benches, and its tiny palaces with their wooden and metal roofs — everything in it was of miniscule proportions. Perhaps the cemetery’s inhabitants had themselves grown smaller after death and now, more furtive and malevolent because of their diminished size, they continued to live out their quiet, sinister lives right here.

I noticed several small stools on which food and wine had been placed. On one of the stools there was even a candle burning inside a glass jar. I had heard of the custom of offering up food and drink to the dead, but nonetheless the sight of these stools frightened me all the more.

The crickets continued their chirring and the moon cast its white light on the already white gravestones, making their black shadows look even blacker as they lay on the earth, heavy and immobile like slabs of rock.

I stole past the graves as quietly as I could, but my stick made a hollow and slightly terrifying sound as it tapped against the ground. I drew it up under my arm, but now the night became so still that I was even more frightened. Suddenly I noticed a coffin lid leaning against the wrought-iron fence enclosing one of the graves. Next to this grave was a new, freshly dug plot which had not yet been fenced in.

At the sight of the coffin lid a quiver of icy cold shot up my spine, painfully contracted the skin on the back of my neck, and actually made my hair stand on end. But I kept on walking — my eyes fastened on the coffin lid, which cast a reddish glow in the moonlight.

According to Islamic custom the coffin of the deceased is lowered into the grave without any lid, apparently to facilitate the dead man’s ascent to heaven. Once inside the grave, the coffin is covered over with loose boards which perform the same function as a lid.

But I knew nothing of this custom at the time and assumed in my ignorance that the dead man had come out of his grave, rested his coffin lid against the fence, and was now wandering around somewhere in the vicinity. Or perhaps he was hiding behind the lid, just waiting for me to turn my back on him and start running. But I continued to walk, not moving one extra muscle and not accelerating my steps, knowing that I must keep my eyes on the coffin lid, no matter what. At the sound of grass rustling beneath my feet, I realized that I had strayed from the path, but I kept on walking, not letting the lid out of sight. Suddenly I felt myself falling.

I caught a momentary glimpse of the moon streaking across the sky and then plopped onto something white and hairy which immediately shot out from under me. I fell back onto the ground, apparently at the bottom of a large pit. As I lay there with closed eyes, awaiting my fate, I sensed that he, or rather it, was somewhere beside me and that I was completely in its power. And now there began flashing through my mind scenes from stories I had heard shepherds and hunters tell of graveyard happenings and strange encounters in the forest.

I lay there terror-stricken and utterly helpless, but for some reason the apparition made no move in my direction. Finally, when I could stand the suspense no longer, I summoned up the courage to open my eyes.

It was as if I had flung open a door into a pitch-black room. At first I couldn’t see a thing, but then I noticed something whitish moving in the darkness. I could feel that it was watching me, but more frightening than this was its strange swaying motion.

I have no idea how many minutes went by, but gradually I began to regain the use of my senses. First I recognized the smell of freshly dug earth still warm from the heat of the day; then I detected some other, very familiar and almost reassuring smell which somehow reminded me of home. Still swaying and white, the apparition remained in its corner, but my horror, which had seemed to last an eternity, had finally spent itself. I now became aware of a pain in my leg and felt a need to stretch it out full length. I had apparently sprained it during my fall.

For a long time I kept my eyes fastened on the wavering white spot. Suddenly it began to take on a familiar shape, and seconds later it turned into a male goat with horns and a beard which were clearly discernible even in the darkness. Having long known that the devil often assumes the form of a goat, I felt somewhat reassured, since at least this much was clear. One thing I hadn’t realized, however, was that the devil would also smell like a goat.

I cautiously extended my leg, but this seemed to put the goat on his guard. He stopped chewing his cud and merely continued to sway back and forth in his strange fashion.

I immediately froze in position and once again the goat went back to his cud. Summoning up my courage, I raised my head and now was able to see the edge of the pit, sharply etched in the moonlight, and a translucent strip of sky, in the middle of which gleamed a small bright star. A tree rustled in the distance, and it was strange to be able to sense from down here the breeze that was blowing up there. I looked up at the tiny star and noticed that it too seemed to sway slightly in the breeze. Suddenly there was a hollow thud. An apple had fallen from the apple tree. I gave a start, now realizing for the first time that it was growing chilly.

Some boyish instinct told me that inaction is never a sign of strength. And since the goat continued to chew, gazing right through me as if I didn’t exist, I decided I would try to escape. I stood up cautiously and extended my arm, only to discover that the edge was too high for me to reach even by jumping. My walking stick had remained up above, but probably it wouldn’t have helped me much anyway.

The pit was quite narrow, and I decided I would try to scale it at an angle, pressing my arms against one wall and my legs against the other. Groaning from the strain, I managed to raise myself a few short feet, but then one of my legs — the bad one — slid from the wall and once again I landed on the ground. As I fell, the goat jumped up in fright and shied to one side. This was very careless of him, since now I grew bolder and even approached him. As he backed into his corner without making a sound, I cautiously extended my hand. He touched the palm of my hand with his lips and I could feel his warm breath. Then obstinately shaking his head, he began sniffing and snorting in goatlike fashion.

I was now fully convinced that this was no devil but merely a goat which had landed in the same mess as I. I had often noticed when tending my uncle’s herd that goats have a habit of getting stuck in spots which they’re unable to get out of.

I sat down on the ground next to the goat, putting my arms around his neck and pressing close to his body. I tried to make him lie down so that I could get the full benefit of his warmth, but he stubbornly continued to stand. He did, however, begin to lick my hand — cautiously at first, then ever more boldly. His strong, supple tongue ran roughly along my palm, licking the salt from it. I enjoyed the prickly sensation and did not remove my hand. The goat was enjoying himself too and had already begun to fasten his sharp teeth on the edge of my shirt. I quickly rolled up my shirt sleeve and let him move on to fresh territory.

As he continued licking my arm, I realized for the first time in my life how comforting the presence of another living creature can be. It now occurred to me that even if the ashen blue face of the dead man were suddenly to peer over the top of the pit, I would not be too frightened but would merely press closer to my goat.

After a while the goat grew tired of licking my arm and lay down beside me of his own accord. Here he remained, peacefully chewing his cud.

The night was as still as ever, only the moonlight had grown more limpid and the tiny star had moved to the edge of the strip of sky. It had also grown chillier.

Suddenly I heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats, and my heart began pounding madly. The hoofbeats became more and more distinct, and at times I could even hear the metallic clicking of the horse’s shoes against the stones. I was afraid the rider would turn off to the side, but the hoofbeats kept coming closer and closer and already I could hear the horse’s breathing and the squeaking of the saddle. I was too excited to move, and only when the hoofbeats had passed almost directly overhead did I finally jump up and start shouting, “Help! Help! I’m down here!”

The horse came quickly to a halt and in the silence I could distinguish the bonelike crunching of its teeth against the bit. Then a male voice asked hesitantly, “Who’s there?”

I lurched forward in the direction of the voice and cried out, “It’s me! A boy!”

The man was silent for a moment and then I heard, “What boy?”

The man’s voice was hard and suspicious. Apparently he feared some sort of trap.

“I’m a boy from the city,” I said, trying to sound as much like a living person as possible, which only made my voice sound strange and unnatural.

“What are you doing down there?” the voice asked gruffly. The man still suspected a trap.

“I fell in by accident, I was on my way to Uncle Meksut’s,” I quickly replied, afraid that he would ride on before I could finish.

“To Meksut’s? You should have said so.”

I heard him get down from his horse and throw the reins over the wrought-iron fence of one of the graves. His footsteps drew nearer, but then he suddenly halted before reaching the edge of the pit.

“Grab hold,” he shouted as a rope came whirring down through the air and landed in the pit beside me. As I grabbed hold of it, I suddenly remembered the goat, which was standing silent and forlorn in his corner. After a moment’s reflection I wound the rope around his neck in a double loop and cried up:

“You can start pulling!”

As the rope grew taut, the goat began jerking his head and rising up on his hind legs. In order to prevent the rope from biting into his neck, I grabbed hold of his hind legs and began pushing up with all my strength. But just as his horned head appeared in the moonlight above the pit, the man suddenly let out a howl in what seemed a goatlike voice, dropped the rope and took to his heels. The goat came crashing down beside me and I cried out in pain as one of his hoofs landed on my foot. My tears must have been close to the surface since now I began crying in earnest — from weariness and frustration as well as from the pain. I kept on crying till I could cry no longer. But then, just as I was cursing myself for not having warned the man about the goat, it suddenly occurred to me that the man’s horse was still tied to the fence and that eventually he would have to come back for it.

And sure enough, about ten minutes later I caught the sound of footsteps creeping up in the distance. Obviously he intended to untie his horse and take off as quickly as possible.

“That was a goat,” I said in a loud but calm voice.

Silence.

“Mister, that was a goat,” I repeated, trying to maintain the same tone of voice.

I sensed that he had halted and was listening.

“Whose goat?” he asked suspiciously.

“I don’t know, he fell in before I did,” I answered, realizing that my words did not sound very convincing.

“You don’t seem to know anything, do you?” he remarked. “And how are you related to Meksut?”

Too excited to make any sense, I began explaining our relationship (in Abkhazia everyone is related). I felt he was beginning to believe me, and hoping to inspire his confidence even further, I went on to explain the purpose of my visit. But the more I talked, the more I realized how difficult it is to justify oneself from the depths of the grave.

Finally he made his way up to the pit and cautiously leaned forward. His unshaven face looked strange and unsavory in the moonlight, and it was obvious that he would rather have been anywhere but here at the edge of this pit. I even had the impression that he was holding his breath.

I threw up the end of the rope which had fallen back into the pit and tried to help him from below as he grabbed hold and began pulling. The goat foolishly resisted, but after hoisting him up halfway, the man managed to seize hold of his horns and with ill-concealed aversion hauled him out of the pit. He was obviously disgusted by the whole business.

“Goddamned beast!” he muttered, and I heard the sound of his foot kicking the goat. The goat bleated in pain and must have darted off, for now the man began swearing in earnest. But apparently he seized hold of the rope in time, and seconds later I heard the goat being dragged back again. Now the man knelt down by the edge of the pit and, planting one hand on the ground, seized my outstretched hand with the other and angrily began pulling. I tried to make myself as light as possible, not wanting to get the same treatment as the goat. He quickly hoisted me up over the edge of the pit and set me down beside him. He was a large, heavy-set man, and my hand ached from his grip.

After looking me over in silence, he suddenly flashed a smile and patted me on the head, “You gave me quite a scare with that goat of yours. There I was, thinking there was a human at the other end of the rope, and out comes that horned creature…”

I immediately felt better. We walked over to the fence where his horse stood motionless and clearly visible in the moonlight. The goat trailed behind us, still tied to the rope.

From the horse came the sweet smell of sweat, saddle leather and corn. Probably he’s just left some corn off at the mill, I thought, remembering that the rope too had smelled of corn. The man now lifted, or rather threw, me into the saddle, whereupon the horse tossed back its head and tried to bite me. I drew up my leg just in time. Suddenly I remembered my walking stick, but didn’t dare ask permission to go back for it.

The man loosened the reins from the fence, tossed them over the horse’s head and climbed heavily into the saddle — all the while holding the goat by his tether. The horse sagged under his weight and I myself was squeezed uncomfortably between his body and the saddlebow.

The horse set off briskly, kicking up its heels and trying to break into a trot. It was full of energy and obviously resented having to drag the goat along behind it.

Lulled by the dull reverberation of the horse’s hoofbeats and by its gentle, rocking gait, I dozed off.

Suddenly the horse came to a halt and I awoke. We were standing by a wattle fence behind which could be seen a well-tended yard and a large house set high on wooden pilings. A light was burning in the window. It was Uncle Meksut’s house.

“Hey! Where’s the master of the house?” shouted my companion as he lit up a cigarette. Not bothering to get down from the saddle, he carelessly slung the goat’s tether around one of the fence pickets.

The door of the house opened and someone called out, “Who’s there?”

The voice was bold and sharp and seemed to indicate a readiness for any encounter. Such is the tone of voice in which people in our parts respond to an unfamiliar cry at night.

It was Uncle Meksut. I immediately recognized his short, broad-shouldered figure. He came down the steps and started toward us, peering intently into the darkness and chasing off the dogs which crowded around him.

I can still remember the astonished and even frightened look on his face when he finally caught sight of me.

“It’s a long story,” said my rescuer, lifting me out of the saddle and trying to pass me over the fence into Uncle Meksut’s arms. But I refused to be passed, and catching hold of one of the pickets, I climbed down on my own. My companion began to unwind the goat’s tether from the fence.

“Where did the goat come from?” asked Uncle Meksut, now even more astonished.

“It’s quite a story, quite a story!” the horseman gaily replied, casting a conspiratorial glance in my direction.

“Leave your horse and come on inside!” said Uncle Meksut, grabbing the horse by the bit.

“Thanks, Meksut, but I’m afraid I can’t,” answered the horseman, suddenly preparing to leave, though up to now he hadn’t seemed in any hurry. As dictated by Abkhazian custom, Uncle Meksut tried long and hard to persuade him to stay — first acting offended, then pleading, and finally even making fun of the alleged obligations which prevented him from accepting his hospitality. As he talked, Uncle Meksut kept glancing back and forth between me and the goat, apparently sensing that the goat was somehow connected with my arrival, but just how, he could not for the life of him figure out.

Finally the horseman rode off, dragging the goat behind him. Uncle Meksut led me into the house, clicking his tongue in astonishment and scolding the dogs as he went.

The front room was filled with guests. They were seated around a large table covered with fruit and refreshments, and their faces were clearly illuminated — more by the flaming hearth than by the light given off by the kerosene lamp. Mama was there too, and even in the crimson glow of the flames I could see the color slowly drain from her face as she caught sight of me.

The other guests jumped up from their seats, gasping and groaning in astonishment. Upon learning the purpose of my visit, one of my city aunts began to topple backward as if in a faint. Having little experience in such matters, none of her country relatives came to the rescue and she was forced to catch herself awkwardly in midfall.

Uncle Meksut did his best to comfort the women and even proposed a toast to victory, to our sons and to the safe return of all of them. Uncle Meksut was the soul of hospitality; his house was always filled with guests, and now that the grapes had already been harvested here in the valley, the season of lengthy toasts was just beginning.

Mama sat quietly, not touching a thing. I felt sorry for her and would have liked to comfort her, but the role I had chosen for myself did not permit any such display of weakness.

A bowl of steaming grits, some roast chicken and even a glass of wine were set before me now. Mama shook her head disapprovingly at the wine, but Uncle Meksut said that macharka was as harmless as grape juice and that I was no longer a child.

I had finished relating my adventures and was still sucking the meat from the last of the chicken bones when suddenly I felt sleep coming over me — a sleep as sweet and golden as macharka, the first wine of the season. I dozed off at the table.

Mama returned from Baku some ten days later. It turned out that my brother had not been wounded at all, but was merely homesick. He had decided that he had to see at least one member of the family before being sent off to the front and, as usual, he got his way. He was the prankster in our family and such a stunt was completely in character.