The Goatibex Constellation

IV

It was about ten in the morning and already beginning to get hot when I arrived in the village of Walnut Springs. The bus let me off and continued on its way, leaving a trail of dust behind it.

I began walking in the direction of the kolkhoz office, only too happy to be able to stretch my legs after the long bus ride. I was in a good mood and fairly brimming with reportorial zeal.

Next to the kolkhoz office I noticed two elderly Abkhazians seated in a patriarchal pose under the mighty canopy of a walnut tree. One of them held a staff in his hand, the other a walking stick. I was surprised and delighted to observe that the hooklike curve at the top of the staff exactly matched the hooklike contour of its owner’s nose, while the straight and simple line of the walking stick held by the second old man was equally in keeping with his straight, Roman nose. I nodded to the old men in passing and they politely bent forward, as if half rising to greet me.

“That’s the new doctor, I expect,” said one of them after I had passed by.

“He looks more like an Armenian to me,” said the other.

The kolkhoz administration was housed in a two-story wooden building. The offices were on the second floor, while the first floor was given over to the kolkhoz store and to various storerooms whose doors were bolted with heavy padlocks. The door to the store was open, and from inside came the sound of female laughter.

An old battered car was parked out front, and I gathered that the kolkhoz chairman was in his office.

Tacked to the front wall of the building was an announcement written in ink-stained letters which read as follows:

THE GOATIBEX IS OUR PRIDE AND JOY

A lecture to be given by Vakhtang Bochua, doctoral candidate in archeology, active member of the Society for the Advancement of Scientific and Political Knowledge, and chairman of the Society for the Preservation of the Treasures of Antiquity.

The lecture will be followed by a showing of the film The Iron Mask.

So Vakhtang was already here or about to arrive! I was delighted at the thought of a reunion with our renowned joker and changalist. I hadn’t seen Vakhtang in more than a year, and although I had heard he was doing well, I had no idea that he had already become a doctoral candidate in archeology, much less an authority on goatibexes.

Here I should explain that the word changalist, which seems to be used only in Abkhazia, signifies a person who likes to drink at others’ expense. The verb zachangalit’, derived from this word, means to latch onto someone and take control, not necessarily for the purpose of a free drink, but sometimes in a broader sense.

Actually, most of us didn’t mind treating Vakhtang, since wherever he went he always created a mood of noisy, unrestrained gaiety. Even his appearance was full of comic contradictions: he was a native of the Caucasus, but as fair as the fairest Swede; he had the gloomy and massive head of a Nero, but was good-natured and gentle; he could be as pushy and resourceful as any State procurement agent, but was a historian and curator by profession.

Following his graduation from the Institute of Historical and Archival studies, Vakhtang had worked for several years as a tour guide. Then he had published a short book entitled Among the Flowering Ruins which had become a favorite with our tourists. “And with foreign tourists,” Vakhtang would inevitably add whenever the subject came up in his presence, which it almost always did since he himself was sure to bring it up.

We Abkhazians had often gotten together during our student days in Moscow, and there was never a party that took place without Vakhtang. In this respect, as in many others, he showed an extraordinary sense of timing. If, for example, one of us happened to receive a package from home, Vakhtang never had to be informed of the fact but would automatically appear in the dormitory of the student in question before the latter even had a chance to open his package.

“Stop the proceedings,” he would shout from the hall. Then as he came bursting into the room, he would overwhelm the unfortunate recipient with a torrent of eloquent but meaningless words.

One sensed the operator in him even then, but he was a gay, impudent and artistic sort of operator — and really quite harmless and good-natured except on those rare occasions when he personally had to foot the bill.

With my mind on Vakhtang I made my way up the wooden stairs and entered the kolkhoz office, which consisted of a single long, cool room partitioned in half by two wooden railings. To my left, a stout, unshaven individual sat dozing at his desk. Sensing that someone had entered, he half opened one eye and briefly took cognizance of my arrival. Then, his curiosity satisfied, he dozed off again. He was like a sleepy tomcat which half opens one eye at the sound of dishes clattering in the distance, only to close it once he realizes that this clatter has nothing to do with the beginning of a meal.

To my right, several accountants were industriously clicking away on their abacuses. Occasionally, when one of them would click too loudly, the dozing individual would half open the same eye and then amiably close it again. One of the accountants got up from his desk, walked over to the metal cabinet and took a folder from it. Only as he turned away from the cabinet did I suddenly realize that this accountant was a girl dressed in a man’s suit. I was struck by the expression on her face; it was as sad as a dried-up well.

At the far end of the room the imposing figure of the chairman loomed from behind a large desk. He was talking on the telephone. He looked me over with cool curiosity and then averted his eyes, apparently intent upon what was being said at the other end of the receiver.

“Hello,” I said in Russian, not addressing anyone in particular.

“Hello,” the girl answered softly, slightly raising her sad face.

I didn’t know what to say or do next. It would have been embarrassing to interrupt the chairman while he was still on the phone, but it was equally embarrassing just to stand there doing nothing.

“Has the lecturer arrived yet?” I asked the girl on the spur of the moment, as if it were the lecture I was interested in.

“Yes, Comrade Bochua has already arrived,” she softly replied, looking up at me with her large round eyes, “but he’s gone off to have a look at the old fortress.”

“My dear fellow, there’s no need to worry about the corn, the stalks are as sturdy as saplings!” the chairman began thundering in Abkhazian. “As sturdy as saplings, I tell you. But what I wanted to remind you about was the fertilizer.… Yes, they’ve sent us some, but not enough.… If that idiotic commission should come around, just bring them over. We’ve got plenty to show for ourselves.… May I dig up my father’s bones if we don’t manage to fulfill the plan, but my dear Andrey Sharlovich, as for extra land, we simply don’t have any.… What fallow lands?! We haven’t enough fallow lands to spread a handkerchief on. Our agronomist is sitting right here, he’ll tell you — if he ever wakes up, that is,” the chairman added playfully, now glancing over at the individual who was dozing.

But no sooner had he finished his sentence than the latter began gurgling something angrily in reply — before even opening his eyes, as it seemed to me. From what he said, I gathered that he had no intention of rooting up his tea plantations for any crazy commissioners. And having made his point, he broke off as precipitously as he had begun, closing his eyes in midsentence.

The chairman kept his hand cupped firmly over the receiver while the agronomist was talking. But now as he noticed that I was watching him, he frowned and barked out in Abkhazian to the girl:

“Find out where that blockhead is from and what he wants!”

Returning once again to the receiver, he suddenly adopted the tone of a mildly reproachful host:

“You’ve been neglecting us, Andrey Sharlovich. It doesn’t seem right. And it’s not just me who’s asking for you, but the people — our kolkhoz workers.”

I was somewhat taken aback by the word blockhead. Since the chairman had obviously concluded that I wasn’t a native Abkhazian, I had no choice but to play along.

The chairman was still talking on the telephone. By now he had come full circle and was back on the subject of fertilizer:

“About a hundred tons of superphosphate. Please, Andrey Sharlovich, I beseech you as a brother.”

I watched the girl as she worked. She was adding up something and every once in a while she would move the counters of her abacus as if pensively toying with a strand of large wooden beads.

Finally the chairman hung up the receiver and I walked up to him.

“Hello, comrade. You’re from the State lumber yards, right?” he asked confidently as he extended his hand.

“I’m from the newspaper,” I answered.

“Welcome,” he said, growing more alert and apparently shaking my hand somewhat harder than he had intended.

“Here are my credentials,” I said, reaching into my pocket.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” he replied with a peremptory wave of the hand. “One can always tell an honest man by his face,” he had the impudence to add, looking me straight in the eye.

“I’m here in connection with the goatibex,” I said, immediately sensing that anything I had to say on the subject would only sound ludicrous in this company. And I was right. One of the accountants began to chuckle.

“Cut the laughter, you hear!” muttered the chairman in Abkhazian and then added in Russian: “We’ve made great strides with the goatibex.”

“And what specifically?” I asked.

“Well, in the first place we’ve launched a full-scale campaign to educate the people,” said the chairman, bending back the little finger of his left hand and tapping it against his right palm for emphasis. “Today, for example, our respected colleague Vakhtang Bochua is giving a lecture on the goatibex. And we’ve sent our livestock man off to consult with the breeding specialist,” he added, now bending back his fourth finger and again tapping it lightly against his palm. “Why — are there any complaints?” he asked, suddenly stopping short and gazing at me with dark, wary eyes.

“No,” I answered, meeting his gaze head-on.

“Well, there’s this one individual, the former chairman of a kolkhoz that was merged with ours, and he.…”

“No, no,” I broke in, “this has nothing to do with any complaints.”

“But he never signs his name,” he added, as if to reveal the full extent of the man’s cunning. “But we know who he is and how he signs his letters.”

“Can I have a look at the goatibex?” I interrupted, letting him know that this individual didn’t interest me in the least.

“Of course,” he answered, “let’s go.”

The chairman got up from his desk, his large, powerful body moving freely and easily under his loose clothing.

Without saying a word, the sleepy agronomist rose from his desk and accompanied us down to the porch.

“How many times have I told that idiot to clean up the sheep pen,” said the chairman in Abkhazian as we descended the stairs.

“Valiko! Come here a minute!” shouted the chairman, still in Abkhazian, as he turned toward the door which led into the store. “Or have they already married you off in there?”

From inside the store came the sound of a girl’s laughter and a young man’s impudent voice:

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s not what is the matter, but what’s going to be the matter if I lock you two up in there and invite your mother-in-law to come see for herself what’s going on!”

The sound of female laughter was heard once again, and now there appeared on the threshold a young man of medium height with enormous blue eyes which gazed with childlike innocence from his swarthy face.

“Drive over to Auntie Nutsa’s and get some cucumbers for the goatibex,” said the chairman. “A comrade has come from the city and we don’t want to be disgraced.”

“No thanks, not me,” said the young man, “they’d laugh in my face.”

“The hell with them — this is State business,” the chairman declared sternly. “Then take the cucumbers straight to the pen — we’ll be waiting for you there.”

Apparently this young man Valiko was the chairman’s driver. He got into the car, started it up, and with an angry turn of the wheel drove out into the street.

It had grown hot. The two old men were still sitting in the shade of the walnut tree. The one with the staff was relating something to his companion, and as he talked, he would tap the ground every so often with his staff. He had gouged a decent-sized hole already, and one could easily imagine that here in this shady spot he was planning to erect a picket fence to protect himself and his companion from the hot summer sun and the bustle of kolkhoz life.

The chairman greeted the two old men as we approached, and they went through the motions of half rising to greet us.

“Sonny,” asked the one with the staff, “is that young fellow with you the new doctor?”

“He’s the goatibex doctor,” replied the chairman.

“And here I thought he was an Armenian,” interjected the one with the stick.

“Will wonders never cease!” exclaimed the one with the staff. “Why up in the mountains I used to kill those goatibexes by the hundreds, and now they send a doctor for just one of them.

“That old man’s quite a cunning fellow,” remarked the chairman when we had reached the street.

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, one time when the district Party secretary was driving by, he happened to stop in this spot. That old man was sitting there in the shade, just as he is now, and the two of them start talking about how things used to be in the old days and how they are today. The old man says to him, ‘They used to plough the earth with wooden ploughs, but now they use metal ones.’ ‘So?’ asks the secretary. ‘With the wooden plough the earth falls equally to both sides, but the metal plough throws it all to one side,’ says the old man. ‘Well, what does that prove?’ asks the secretary. ‘If the earth falls equally to both sides, then the peasant gets to keep only half of the harvest for himself, and the other half goes to the master. But the metal plough throws the earth all to one side, and that means that the peasant gets all the harvest for himself.’ ‘Right you are,’ says the secretary and with that he drives off.”

I decided to jot down this anecdote so as not to forget it later on. But no sooner had I reached for my notebook than the chairman broke in decisively:

“That’s not necessary.”

“Why not?” I asked in surprise.

“It’s not worth it,” he said, “that’s just an old man’s idle rambling. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you when there’s something worth writing down.”

“Well, never mind, I’ll remember it anyway,” I thought to myself as I put away my notebook.

We made our way along the scorched, dusty road. By now the dust had grown so hot that I could feel it baking through the soles of my shoes.

On either side of the road small farmhouses with their fruit trees, private plots of corn, and green patchwork of lawns would occasionally come into view. The trunks and branches of the fruit trees were overgrown with grapevines, and thick clusters of unripened grapes could be seen peeping through the curly foliage of the vines.

“There’ll be a lot of wine this year,” I remarked to the chairman.

“Yes, the grapes are good,” he replied somewhat absentmindedly, “but have you noticed the corn?”

I looked at the corn, but didn’t notice anything in particular.

“Why, what’s there to notice?” I asked.

“Take a good look,” said the chairman, smiling enigmatically.

“Upon closer inspection I noticed that the corn on one side of each private plot was higher and had thicker and greener leaves than on the other side.

“Was it planted at different times?” I asked the chairman, who continued to smile enigmatically.

“The very same day, the very same hour,” he replied, his smile growing even broader.

“What’s the explanation?” I asked.

“This year there was a reduction in the size of private plots — a necessary measure, of course, but not for our kolkhoz. Tea is our main crop, so what use are these scraps of land to me? I can’t use them for raising tea.”

I took another good look at the corn. And indeed, the difference in the size and strength of the stalks was so pronounced that I was reminded of those textbook drawings used to project future crop yields.

“These peasants are very clever,” said the chairman, still smiling enigmatically. And now his smile seemed to indicate that no city person had ever understood, nor was ever likely to understand, just how clever these peasants could be.

“In what way?” I asked.

“In what way? Go ahead, you tell him,” said the chairman, suddenly turning to the agronomist.

“Well, for example, if a peasant sees some cow dung lying here on the road, he’ll automatically throw it onto his plot — but only onto the part that still belongs to him,” wheezed the agronomist. “And it’s that way with everything they do.”

“That’s peasant psychology for you,” said the chairman condescendingly.

I wanted to jot down this bit about the cow dung, but once again the chairman grabbed my arm and forced me to put away my notebook.

“What’s wrong with writing it down?” I asked.

“This is just casual conversation, not the sort of thing you should write about,” he replied with all the conviction of a man who knew better than I what one could and could not write about.

“But it’s the truth, isn’t it?” I asked in astonishment.

“But do you think every truth can be written down?” he asked, equally astonished.

And here we were both so astonished at the other’s astonishment that we burst out laughing. The agronomist snorted disdainfully.

“If I should tell them,” said the chairman, nodding in the direction of the nearest plot, “that they could keep half of the harvest from the whole plot, then they’d work the land quite differently and take in a good harvest from both parts.”

I already knew that such things went on in many kolkhozes, though of course not too openly.

“Well, why couldn’t you tell them that?” I asked.

“It would be considered a violation of the law,” he sternly replied and then added somewhat vaguely, “though sometimes we do allow them to keep half of whatever’s been harvested over and above the plan.”

Suddenly I was struck by the heavy aroma of sun-steamed tea leaves, and seconds later the tea plantation came into view — its dark-green rows of bushes extending from the right-hand side of the road all the way up to the edge of the forest. In some places the bushes gently skirted the forest, while in others they entered it, forming a sort of cove. An enormous oak stood in the middle of the plantation, and it was undoubtedly here that the tea pickers found relief from the noonday sun.

All around us it was so still that one would have thought the plantation was deserted. But now the broad-brimmed hat of one of the pickers suddenly appeared by the side of the road, while farther away there flashed a white kerchief and then a third figure in red.

“How’s it going, Gogola?” the agronomist called out to the figure in the broad-brimmed hat. The hat turned in our direction.

“Twenty kilos since morning,” said the girl, briefly raising her pretty, delicate face.

“Good girl, Gogola!” the chairman shouted happily.

The agronomist wheezed with satisfaction.

The girl bent gracefully over the tea bush and began skimming its surface with an almost caressing movement of her nimble fingers. She had gloves on her hands, but they were gloves with the fingers cut out, like those worn during the winter by lady streetcar conductors in Moscow.

The only sound to break the silence was the steady plop! plop! plop! of the tender shoots which seemed to jump of their own accord into the hands of the young picker, and from there into the basket. The latter was attached to her belt and pulled it down slightly to one side. She made her way slowly along the row of bushes, moving her hands back and forth from bush to basket and every once in a while bending over to pull out a weed from one of the bushes.

By now the heat had grown intense and there was a slight haziness on the horizon.

The sight of the tea plantation and the steady, quiet work of the almost invisible pickers seemed to have a heartening effect on the chairman.

“Good girl, Gogola, good girl!” he called out, almost crooning with satisfaction.

Still breathing heavily, the agronomist strode alongside us.

“You should put something down about Gogola, I’ll tell you all about her,” said the chairman. “Last summer she picked eighteen hundred kilos — almost two tons.”

But by now I didn’t feel like putting anything down and, more to the point, this was not the story I was after.

“Another time,” I answered. “Tell me, have you and the other kolkhoz been merged for long?”

“That’s a sore subject, my dear fellow. They’ve saddled us with a bunch of losers,” replied the chairman with distaste and then added: “This consolidation business — it’s a good measure, of course, but not for our kolkhoz. Their crop is tobacco, ours is tea. I’d rather raise ten goatibexes than have anything to do with those people.”

“Ah, good girl, Gogola, good girl,” he crooned once again, as if hoping to restore his good mood. But apparently his efforts were in vain, for he suddenly spat out in disgust: “Losers! Real losers!”

Then he grew silent.

We finally reached the area where the animals were kept. Next to a large, empty cowshed was a pen with wattle fencing, which was used for the animals in the summertime. This pen was adjoined by a smaller one, and it was here that we found the goatibex resting under a thin canvas awning.

As we approached the pen, I eagerly began examining the illustrious animal. As soon as he caught sight of us, the goatibex stopped chewing his cud and glared with pink, unblinking eyes in our direction. Then he rose to his feet and with a forward thrust of his powerful chest began stretching himself. He was a surprisingly large animal with massive horns which curled outward like a well-cultivated Cossack mustache.

“He’s healthy enough, but he’s just not interested in our female goats,” said the chairman.

“What do you mean, not interested?”

“He doesn’t mate with any of them,” explained the chairman, “our climate’s too humid. He’s used to the mountains.”

“And you say you feed him with cucumbers?” I asked, suddenly recoiling as I remembered that he had talked about the cucumbers in Abkhazian. Fortunately, however, my slip of the tongue went unnoticed.

“What do you mean!” he exclaimed. “We give him the regular, prescribed diet. The cucumbers are just an extra — a bit of local initiative on our part.”

The chairman thrust his hand into the pen and began coaxing the goatibex. The goatibex fixed his gaze on the chairman’s hand, but didn’t budge an inch.

At this point Valiko drove up. He got out of the car and as he started toward us — his pockets bulging with cucumbers — the agronomist sat down beside the fence and immediately dozed off in its meager shade. The chairman relieved Valiko of one of the cucumbers and extended his hand through the fence. The goatibex pricked up his ears and fastened his gaze on the cucumber. Then, as if hypnotized, he began to move slowly forward. But just when he had come within a few feet of the cucumber, the chairman lifted his hand so high that the goatibex was unable to reach it. The animal now proceeded to raise himself up on his hind legs, resting his forelegs on the fence. But no sooner had he extended his neck in the direction of the cucumber than the chairman raised his hand even higher. This was too much to bear, and now with one light, savage spring the goatibex leaped over the fence, almost landing on the agronomist’s head. The latter just barely opened his eyes and then dozed off again.

“His jumping ability is quite extraordinary,” solemnly declared the chairman as he surrendered the cucumber.

Baring his large yellow incisors, the goatibex seized the cucumber and began chewing on it with the frenzied impatience of a cat attacking a ball of catnip.

“You’ll have to climb over and coax him back in again,” said the chairman, turning to his driver.

Valiko groaned in disgust and climbed over the fence, accidentally dropping several cucumbers from his pockets. The goatibex would have pounced on them, but the chairman quickly chased him away and picked up the cucumbers himself. From inside the fence Valiko held up one of his remaining cucumbers and began coaxing the animal back into the pen. The chairman offered me one of the cucumbers that had fallen on the ground and himself bit into another, first rubbing it lightly on his sleeve.

“Most of our animals are pasturing up in the mountains,” said the chairman, smacking his lips as he ate. “We’ve kept ten of our best she-goats down here for him, but he’s just not responding.”

Once again the goatibex raised himself up, placing his forelegs on the fence. But still unable to reach the cucumber, he jumped back into the pen with an even more impressive leap than before. No sooner was he inside, however, than the driver raised the cucumber high above his head. The goatibex stopped dead in his tracks and fixed his pink, animal eyes on the cucumber. Then he jumped up, tore the cucumber from the driver’s hand, and crashed to the ground.

“He almost bit off my fingers,” grumbled Valiko as he took another cucumber from his pocket and bit into it.

All of us were now munching on cucumbers except for the agronomist, who still lay dozing against the fence.

“Hey,” shouted the chairman, “maybe this will wake you up!” And he tossed him a cucumber.

The agronomist opened his eyes and picked up the cucumber. He wiped it lethargically on his linen tunic and was about to bite into it, but then for some reason changed his mind. He put the cucumber into his pocket and dozed off again.

A little boy and girl, both about eight years old, came walking up to the pen. The little girl had a large ear of corn in her arms, which she cradled like a baby. The ear must have just been picked, since there were beads of moisture on the silky hairs protruding from beneath its green husk.

“I think the goatibex is about to start a fight,” said the little boy.

“We’d better go home,” said the little girl.

“We’ll watch him fight and then we’ll go,” declared the little boy.

“Try letting in the goats,” said the chairman.

The driver walked over and opened the gate leading into the other pen. Only now did I notice that in a corner of this larger pen a group of she-goats lay huddled together, dozing.

“Heyt, heyt!” shouted Valiko as he began to rouse them.

The goats got up unwillingly and now, raising his head in alarm, the goatibex began sniffing in their direction.

“He understands,” said the chairman, obviously delighted.

“Heyt, heyt!” Valiko kept shouting as he tried to herd the goats together and drive them through the open gate into the smaller pen. But the goats refused to go near the gate and kept running off in every direction.

“They’re afraid,” said the chairman joyfully.

The goatibex stood stock-still with his neck craned forward and his eyes glued on the gate. As he watched and sniffed, his upper lip would occasionally quiver, and I had the impression he was baring his teeth.

“He hates them,” said the chairman almost ecstatically.

“Let’s go home,” said the little girl, “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be scared,” said the little boy and then added with enthusiasm: “He’s gonna start fighting right away.”

“I can’t help being scared. He’s awful wild,” the little girl said soberly as she pressed the ear of corn to her chest.

“He’s stronger than all those goats put together,” said the little boy.

The agronomist suddenly began to chuckle, and taking the cucumber from his pocket, he broke it in half and offered it to the two children. The little girl didn’t move an inch, but merely hugged the ear of corn all the more tightly to her chest. After a moment’s hesitation the little boy edged forward and took the two halves.

“Let’s go,” said the little girl, and then glancing down at her ear of corn, she added: “Dolly’s scared too.”

Apparently she was reminding him of some previous game in order to divert his attention from the present one.

“That’s not a doll, it’s an ear of corn,” the little boy promptly retorted, violating the rules of the old game for the sake of the new. And now he too was munching away on a cucumber. The little girl had declined her half.

Swearing loudly, Valiko finally managed to drive the goats into the smaller pen and to shut the gate behind them. But no sooner were the goats inside than the goatibex charged forward, scattering them in every direction. Quickly overtaking one of the goats, he knocked her over with a thrust of his horns. She somersaulted headfirst, groaned, but then immediately jumped up and took off as fast as her legs would carry her.

The goats ran along the edge of the fence, pounding the ground with their hoofs and raising a trail of dust behind them. As they ran — sometimes spreading out, at other times bunching together — the goatibex would follow right behind, charging furiously with his horns. Every once in a while he would suddenly stop short in order to choose a better angle of attack. Then, after briefly scrutinizing them with his pink eyes, he would charge forward, scattering the poor animals all over the pen with thrusts of his horns.

“He hates them!” exclaimed the chairman once again, clicking his tongue ecstatically.

“Princess Tamara herself[2] wouldn’t be good enough for him!” shouted the driver from the middle of the pen where he stood enveloped in clouds of dust, like a matador in an arena.

“A fine undertaking, but not for our climate!” shouted the chairman, trying to make himself heard over the stamping and bleating of the goats.

The goatibex grew more and more ferocious, and the goats kept careening around the pen, sometimes converging, at other times scattering in different directions. Finally one of them managed to jump over the fence into the larger pen. The others went hurtling after her, but in their terror they miscalculated the height and fell back onto the ground. Once again they were forced to resume their circular flight around the pen.

“That’s enough!” shouted the chairman in Abkhazian. “We’re not going to let that swine mutilate our goats.”

“I’d be happy to roast and devour that animal at the funeral of the man who dreamed up this whole business!” shouted the driver in Abkhazian as he kicked open the gate into the larger pen. The goats rushed toward the gate, but only succeeded in blocking it as they climbed all over each other, bleating in terror. Without losing any momentum the goatibex made several flying attacks on the mass of writhing bodies, ramming them as best he could through the narrow passageway into the larger pen.

It was several minutes before the driver was able to chase him away, and for some time afterwards the goatibex was so keyed up that he kept running around the pen like an angry bull.

“Well, now we can go,” said the little girl.

“He sure gave those goats a beating, and all by himself, too!” the little boy announced to his companion. And with that they were off, their tanned and dusty feet padding noiselessly along the dirt road.

We got into the car and drove back to the kolkhoz office. Valiko pulled up in the shade of the walnut tree and we all got out except for the agronomist, who remained dozing inside.

The two old men were still sitting in their former spot, while up ahead next to a brand-new car stood Vakhtang Bochua, sporting a spanking-white suit and a rosy, good-natured smile. Catching sight of me, he comically spread out his arms as if preparing for an embrace.

“So the prodigal son has returned,” he exclaimed, “and is welcomed here in the shade of the ancient walnut tree by Vakhtang Bochua and an assemblage of village elders. Bow down and kiss the hem of my Circassian caftan, scoundrel!” he added, beaming with sunny vitality. He was accompanied by a young man who followed his every movement with undisguised admiration.

Suddenly I remembered that he might start speaking to me in Abkhazian and, seizing him by the arm, I drew him aside.

“What’s this, my friend, conspiring already?” he asked in eager anticipation.

“Would you pretend that I don’t understand Abkhazian,” I said in a low voice, “there’s been a stupid misunderstanding.”

“I get it,” said Vakhtang, “you’ve come to uncover the sinister plots being hatched by the enemies of the goatibex. Well, don’t worry, after my lecture goatibexation is going to proceed full speed ahead in the village of Walnut Springs — that I can guarantee,” he declared, getting carried away as usual. “Hmm, goatibexation — that’s not a bad term,… so don’t try stealing it from me before I have a chance to use it.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “only just keep quiet about my being Abkhazian.”

“Yours truly knows how to keep quiet, though it doesn’t come easily,” he assured me as we started back toward the chairman.

“I hope my lecture will awaken the creative powers of your kolkhoz, even if it doesn’t succeed in awakening your agronomist,” said Vakhtang to the chairman, at the same time chuckling and winking in my direction.

“This is, of course, an interesting undertaking, Comrade Vakhtang,” said the chairman respectfully.

“Which is just what I intend to prove,” said Vakhtang.

“What’s your connection with all this?” I asked. “The last I heard, your field was history.”

“Exactly,” exclaimed Vakhtang, “and it’s my job to consider the historical aspects of the question.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, let me explain,” he replied with a broad sweep of his hand. “What has been the fate of the mountain ibex down through the ages? He’s always been the victim of feudal hunters and the idle scions of the nobility. They tried to exterminate him, but the proud animal refused to submit. He kept retreating farther and farther up the high and inaccessible slopes of the Caucasus, though in his heart he always longed to return to our fertile Abkhazian valleys.”

“Oh, come off it!” I said.

“To continue:” he went on, patting himself on the stomach and obviously delighted at his own resourcefulness. “And what has been the traditional role of our plain and unpretentious Abkhazian goat? She has always been the mainstay of our poorest peasantry.”

The two old men were listening respectfully to Vakhtang’s speech though they obviously didn’t understand a word of it. The one with the staff had even forgotten about his hole and was sitting in rapt attention with one ear bent slightly forward in order to catch Vakhtang’s every word.

“He’s got quite a way with words,” said the one with the stick.

“Maybe he’s one of them radio fellows,” suggested the one with the staff.

“… But she, our humble goat,” Vakhtang was continuing, “dreamed of a better fate, or to put it more precisely: she dreamed of an encounter with the ibex… And now, thanks to the efforts of some of our talented specialists (and Abkhazia has always been rich in talent), the mountain ibex has finally encountered our humble domestic goat — plain and unpretentious to be sure, but all the more charming for that.”

I blocked my ears.

“Apparently he’s been reminded of something unpleasant, see how he’s stopped up his ears,” said the old man with the stick.

“Probably he’s cursing himself for not being able to cure the goatibex,” added the old man with the staff. “Why, up in the mountains I used to kill those goatibexes by the hundreds, and now people are cursing themselves over the loss of a single one of them.”

“Well, I guess these modern doctors have their problems too,” said the old man with the stick.

“… And it is precisely to the intimate details of this encounter that my lecture will be devoted,” concluded Vakhtang, now taking out his handkerchief and mopping his perspiring brow.

At this point several disheveled young men walked up to the chairman. They were clearly city types and turned out to be the electricians who had come to install power lines in the village. Right away they launched into an interminably long argument with the chairman. It seemed that some aspect of their work had been omitted from the cost estimate, and now they refused to go back to work until the estimate was revised. The chairman was trying to convince them that this was no reason to walk off the job.

One could not help admiring the skill with which he conducted the argument. It was carried on simultaneously in three languages — Abkhazian, Georgian and Russian — and while addressing the most aggressive member of the group in Russian, the official language, he quickly singled out a quiet Kakhetian[3] who had hardly opened his mouth and directed most of his remarks to him.

At times the chairman would turn in our direction as if appealing to us as witnesses. Vakhtang would respond with a dignified nod of the head and mumble something to the effect: no doubt about it, you’re making a fuss over nothing, my friends; I’ll have everything straightened out in the Ministry.

“Do you give these lectures very often?” I asked Vakhtang.

“The requests keep pouring in; I’ve given eighty lectures in the last two months — ten of them benefits and the rest paid,” he reported.

“Well, and what’s the response?”

“The public listens and the public understands,” he replied obscurely.

“And what’s your opinion of all this?”

“Personally, I’m intrigued by his high wool yield.”

“Come on, be serious.”

“The goatibex needs to be shorn,” replied Vakhtang with a straight face. Then suddenly breaking into a smile, he added: “Which is just what I intend to do.”

“Well, okay,” I said, cutting him short, “I’ve got to be going.”

“Don’t be an idiot, stay for a while,” said Vakhtang, and lowering his voice, he added: “There’ll be some home hospitality after the lecture. For me they’ll be happy to slaughter every last goatibex…”

“And what makes you so popular?” I asked.

“Oh, I promised the chairman I’d help him get his fertilizer,” he replied seriously, “and I really will, too.”

“And what’s your connection with fertilizer?”

“My dear boy,” Vakhtang smiled patronizingly, “everything in this world is connected. Andrey Sharlovich has a nephew who wants to enter the Institute this fall, and your humble servant just happens to be on the admissions board. Why shouldn’t the chairman of the district executive committee help a good kolkhoz chairman? And why shouldn’t I lend a hand to a young high school graduate? It’s all done unselfishly, for the benefit of others.”

By now the chairman had succeeded in persuading the workmen to go back to work. He promised to send a telegram right away, instructing an engineer to be sent out from the city to find out who was at fault. The chairman was obviously impatient to be on his way, and the workmen finally plodded off in gloomy fashion, apparently none too satisfied with their partial victory.

I said good-bye to everyone, and the old men politely went through the motions of half rising to see me off.

“The bus has already passed by here, but my driver will take you directly to the highway,” said the chairman.

“My driver will be happy to take you too,” interjected Vakhtang.

The chairman summoned Valiko and the two of us got into the car.

“I’m afraid he’s going to write some sort of nonsense against us,” said the chairman to Vakhtang in Abkhazian.

“Don’t worry,” replied Vakhtang, “I’ve already given him instructions as to what to write and what not to write.”

“Thanks, my dear Vakhtang,” said the chairman and then, turning to his driver, he added: “Stop at that restaurant out on the highway and see that he gets plenty to drink. I know these journalists — they can’t get along without alcohol.”

“Will do,” answered the driver in Abkhazian. Vakhtang burst out laughing.

“You don’t approve, Comrade Vakhtang?” the chairman asked anxiously.

“My friend, I thoroughly approve,” exclaimed Vakhtang, embracing the chairman with one arm. Then, turning in my direction, he shouted above the roar of the motor: “Tell my friend Avtandil Avtandilovich that the promotion of the goatibex is in reliable hands!”