The Goatibex Constellation

V

The car set off down the road, leaving a trail of dust behind it. The sun had almost set, but there was no letup from the heat.

“Some sort of nonsense against us…” the chairman had said. The way he put it, I might write either for or against them, but whatever I wrote would undoubtedly be nonsense. And now as I reflected sadly on his words, I had to admit that he was not very far from the truth.

With regard to the alleged persecution of the goatibex, for example, I learned from the driver that a short time ago the goatibex had broken loose, run off into the tea fields and gorged himself on tea leaves until, as Valiko put it, he went haywire. He had then raced wildly through the village and at this point some dogs had actually pursued him. The villagers thought he had gone mad and wanted to shoot him, but in the end he had gradually quieted down.

The car leapt onto the highway and a few minutes later pulled up to a pale-blue roadside restaurant. We’ll see what luck you have luring me into this place, I thought to myself, at the same time firmly resolving to defend my reputation.

Valiko gazed at me with blue-eyed innocence and asked:

“Shall we stop here for a bite to eat?”

“Thanks anyway, but I think I’ll wait till I get back to town.”

“You’ve got a long way to go.”

“Still, I’d rather be on my way,” I objected, trying to sound as polite as possible. There was something I liked about this fellow with his sparkling blue eyes.

“Just a quick bite,” he said, opening the car door. “We’ll each order whatever we feel like and pay for it ourselves, Russian-fashion.”

What am I worried about, I thought to myself. I know that he’s planning to get me drunk, but he doesn’t know that I know — which gives me the advantage.

“Okay,” I said, “we’ll have a quick bite, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Why sure, just some lobio[4] and greens, that’s all.”

Valiko locked the car and we went into the restaurant.

The place was deserted except for a party sitting in the corner, squeezed around two tables which had been pushed together. They must have been there for quite a while, since there were half a dozen bottles lying on the floor like emptied cartridge cases. The only woman among the revelers was a blonde, probably a Russian or Ukrainian. She was wearing a sundress with a low neckline and every few minutes she would examine her newly acquired tan. Apparently the tan added to her self-confidence.

Valiko selected a table in the opposite corner — a good choice as far as I was concerned.

The two waitresses sat quietly conversing at a table by the window. Valiko walked up to them, carefully avoiding the middle of the room. Apparently he did not want to attract the attention of the party in the corner. Catching sight of him, the waitresses flashed a friendly smile. The younger one’s smile was especially friendly. After greeting both of them in turn, Valiko leaned toward the younger one and began relating some story. The girl continued to smile as she listened to him, her face growing progressively more animated.

“Oh, come on, come on,” she seemed to be saying, feebly pushing him away with her hand as she continued to listen with obvious pleasure.

Such fellows always hit it off with waitresses, I thought to myself. But just at that moment her expression changed and I realized that Valiko had started to place our order. I began to get nervous, and now as the waitress happened to glance in my direction, I quickly cried out:

“Don’t order any wine for me!”

“How can you have a meal without wine?” said Valiko, turning in my direction and throwing up his hands in despair.

The party in the corner finally took notice of us, and one of them called out:

“Valiko, come join us!”

“Sorry, old man, I’m afraid I can’t,” said Valiko, laying his hand on his heart.

“Come on, just for a minute.”

“My apologies to all of you and to the lovely lady, but I’m afraid I can’t,” said Valiko, and backing away respectfully, he returned to our table.

Several minutes later the waitress appeared with an enormous plate of fresh scallions mixed with crimson radishes — the latter peeping through the green scallions like little red beasts. Along with the salad we received separate portions of lobio and bread.

“Don’t forget the mineral water, Lidochka,” said Valiko. And now beginning to relax, I suddenly realized how little I’d had to eat all day. We started off with the lobio, which was cold and unbelievably peppery, and then munched away at the radishes and scallions. Each time I bit into one of the spearlike scallions stems, it would spurt forth a spray of its sharp, pungent juice as if in self-defense.

The waitress reappeared with the mineral water and at the same time placed a bottle of wine on the table.

“Nothing doing,” I said firmly, putting the bottle of wine back on the tray.

“For God’s sake,” whispered Valiko, gazing at me with his clear blue eyes in which there was now a look of anxiety.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“They’re treating you,” said the waitress, casting a glance at the party in the corner.

As we followed her gaze, our eyes met those of the young man who had greeted Valiko. He was beaming proudly in our direction. Valiko nodded his thanks and shook his head in reproach, whereupon the young man modestly lowered his eyes. The waitress set the wine bottle back on the table and walked off with the empty tray.

“I’m not going to drink any,” I said.

“You don’t have to drink it, it can just stand there,” said Valiko.

We started eating again, but the wine seemed somehow to get in the way.

Valiko picked up the bottle of mineral water and asked meekly:

“May I pour you some mineral water?”

“Yes, mineral water’s okay,” I replied, feeling utterly ridiculous.

Having each downed a glass of mineral water, we went back to work on the lobio.

“It’s very spicy,” observed Valiko, noisily drawing in a mouthful of air.

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. The lobio did in fact set one’s mouth on fire.

“I wonder why the Russians don’t like peppers,” Valiko queried abstractly, and then reaching for the bottle of wine, he added: “Probably it’s the difference in climate.”

“Probably so,” I agreed, now watching to see what he would do next.

“You don’t have to drink it, just let it stand there,” said Valiko as he poured out some wine for both of us.

A subtle and fragrant aroma rose from our glasses. It was Isabella wine, a deep crimson in color like pomegranate juice. Valiko wiped his hands on his napkin, finished chewing a radish, and slowly reached for his glass.

“You don’t have to drink it, just have a taste,” he said, gazing at me with his clear blue eyes.

“I don’t want any,” I replied, feeling like an absolute idiot.

“May I dig up my father’s old bones and throw them to the dirty, stinking dogs, if you don’t raise your glass!” he exclaimed in Abkhazian and then abruptly broke off. His enormous blue eyes froze with horror at his own unheard-of sacrilege, and I myself was somewhat dumfounded by this blasphemous outburst.

“The old bones of my father… to the dirty dogs!” he recapitulated and then slumped over the table without a murmur. I grew alarmed.

Don’t worry, I thought to myself, you’re not going to get high on one bottle. All the more so since you have the advantage of knowing that he wants to get you drunk, while he doesn’t know that you know.

We were finishing off the last glass of wine and I still felt completely in control. No one was going to put anything over on me — and actually, Valiko was a nice fellow and everything was turning out quite all right.

The waitress came up with two shish kebabs sizzling on skewers.

“Bring them a bottle of wine from us, and a bar of chocolate for the lady,” ordered Valiko. Then with the leisurely finesse of a provincial gourmet he began freeing the still sizzling meat clinging to the metal skewers.

A friendly custom, I thought to myself and suddenly announced:

“Bring them two bottles and two bars of chocolate…”

“The guest said two bottles,” solemnly confirmed Valiko, and the waitress walked off.

A few minutes later the young man at the other table shook his head in reproach, whereupon Valiko modestly lowered his eyes. The young man then had two bottles of wine sent over to us, whereupon Valiko shook his head in reproach and waved an admonishing finger at him. The young man lowered his head with even greater modesty.

We raised our glasses several times and solemnly toasted our new friends, their old parents, and of course the blonde, who was such a lovely representative of a great people. And now as the rays of the setting sun beat through the window upon her back and glimmered in her hair, simultaneously her face, neck and very bare shoulders were bathed by the shower of compliments emanating from inside the room.

“Let’s drink to the goatibex,” suggested Valiko somewhat more intimately when it began to appear as if both sides had exhausted their supply of collective toasts.

“Okay, let’s drink to him,” I said. And we drank to him.

“A fine undertaking, to say the least,” said Valiko, and on his lips there appeared a faint smile, the significance of which I did not yet perceive.

“Let’s hope it’s successful,” I said.

“I hear the goatibex is beginning to catch on in Russia, too,” he added, the same faint smile still playing about his lips.

“Yes, slowly but surely,” I replied.

“It’s a matter of State significance,” observed Valiko, his eyes now burning with a mysterious blue glitter.

“Yes, it is,” I confirmed.

“I wonder what our enemies are saying about the goatibex,” he asked unexpectedly.

“They don’t seem to be saying anything yet,” I answered.

“Not yet,” he drawled emphatically. “There’s more to the goatibex than meets the eye,” he added after a moment’s reflection.

“There’s always more to everything than first meets the eye,” I said, trying to grasp what he was driving at.

“But I’ve got something specific in mind,” he said. Then with a piercing glance of his fiery blue eyes he quickly added: “Shall we drink a separate toast to the goatibex’s horns?”

“Okay, let’s,” I said, and we emptied our glasses.

But now for some reason Valiko grew sad. He put down his glass and dejectedly began toying with his shish kebab.

“I have a daughter,” he said, gazing up at me with sad eyes, “three years old.”

“A wonderful age,” I said, doing my best to support this domestic theme.

“She understands everything even though she’s only a little girl,” he added defensively.

“That’s very unusual,” I said, “you really are lucky, Valiko.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “I do everything I can for her. But don’t think I’m complaining — I’m happy to do it.”

“I understand,” I said, although by now I didn’t understand a thing.

“No, you don’t understand,” Valiko retorted.

“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly noticing that his clear blue eyes had grown glassy.

“May I boil that innocent child in the hominy pot if…”

“Stop it!” I exclaimed.

“Boil her in the hominy pot,” he continued pitilessly, “and tear her limbs apart with my own two hands, if you don’t tell me what they want with the goatibex — though actually I’ve already figured it out!” he exclaimed with all the passion of the truth seeker who has kept silent too long.

“What do you mean, want with him? Why, meat and wool, of course,” I stammered.

“Don’t you believe it! They’re extracting the atom from his horns,” Valiko declared confidently.

“The atom?!”

“I know for a fact that they’re extracting the atom, but just how — I haven’t figured out,” he said with conviction. And once again a mysterious smile hovered about his lips — the smile of a man who knows more than he’s willing to let on.

I looked into his good-natured, but now utterly uncomprehending eyes and realized that there was nothing I could do to alter his conviction.

“I swear by my grandfather’s ashes that I know nothing of the sort,” I exclaimed.

“So they haven’t told you people either,” exclaimed Valiko in amazement. But what seemed to amaze him was not the fact that people like myself hadn’t been informed, but rather that the riddle of the goatibex was proving even more unfathomable than he had imagined.

As we left the restaurant, a warm, starry sky rose darkly above us. The sky was swaying — first coming closer, then retreating. But even as it retreated, it seemed a lot closer than usual. Large, unfamiliar stars blazed in the heavens; strange, unfamiliar thoughts flashed through my mind. It occurred to me that perhaps our friendly drinking bout had brought us closer to the heavens. Some constellation or other stubbornly kept twinkling above my head, and its contours seemed strangely familiar. The goatibex’s head! — I suddenly realized to my delight — only one of his eyes was excessively small and myopic looking, while the other was large and kept winking.

“The Goatibex Constellation,” I said.

“Where?” asked Valiko.

“Up there,” I said, and embracing him with one arm, I pointed to the constellation.

“So they’ve already renamed it,” said Valiko, looking up at the sky.

“Yes,” I confirmed, continuing to gaze at the sky. It was a real goatibex’s head except that one of his eyes kept winking — but just why it kept winking, I couldn’t figure out for the life of me.

“If I’ve done anything wrong, please forgive me,” said Valiko.

“I’m the one who should ask your forgiveness,” I said.

“If you want to make sure the goatibex is resting comfortably, we can go back and have a look,” said Valiko.

“No,” I said, “I don’t have time for that.”

“Well then, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way,” he said. “I can still make the movie.”

We embraced like brothers, united by our common bond with the goatibex. Then Valiko got into the car.

“Don’t wander off anywhere and be sure to get on the Zugdidi bus,” he said.

For some reason I almost hoped that he’d have trouble starting the car. But it started up right away, and now he shouted once again:

“Don’t take any other bus, wait for the one from Zugdidi!”

For a few minutes I heard the roar of his motor receding into the darkness. Then it died away, and I was left alone in the warm, starlit summer night.

On the other side of the highway there was a park, and beyond the park I could hear the muffled sound of waves breaking against the shore.

Feeling a sudden urge to be close to the sea, I got up and walked across the highway. I remembered that I was supposed to be waiting for the bus, but at that moment it seemed just as logical to wait for it on the seashore.

I entered the park and made my way along one of its tree-lined paths. Silhouetted against the black shadows of the cypress trees were pale phantoms of eucalypti — their broad leaves stirring gently in the cool breeze which blew in from the sea. Every now and then I glanced up at the sky, but there was no cause for alarm. The Goatibex Constellation remained firmly in place.

I was not so drunk as to be oblivious of everything, but just drunk enough to imagine that I was oblivious of nothing.

A couple was sitting on a bench right by the shore. As I started to approach them, they turned their bluish faces in my direction and immediately stopped talking.

“Move over a bit,” I said to the boy, and not waiting for an invitation, I sat down between them. The girl gave a timid laugh.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said peaceably. “I want to show you something.”

“Who’s afraid?” said the boy, not too confidently as it seemed to me. I ignored his words and turned to the girl:

“Look up at the sky,” I said to her in a normal voice, “and what do you see?”

The girl looked at the sky and then at me, trying to make up her mind whether I was drunk or crazy.

“Stars,” she said in an overly natural voice.

“No, look up here, right here,” I patiently objected, now taking her gently by the shoulder and trying to direct her glance toward the Goatibex Constellation.

“Let’s go, they’ll soon be locking up,” the boy said gloomily. He was obviously trying his best to get out of a bad situation.

“Locking up where?” I asked, politely turning in his direction. It pleased me to know that he was afraid of me — all the more so since in this case my manners had been impeccable.

“At the tourist camp,” he replied.

It suddenly occurred to me that there might be some mysterious and perhaps even dangerous connection between the Goatibex Constellation and the tourist camp.[5]

“Strange that you should mention the tourist camp,” I said, apparently more sternly than necessary. The boy did not reply, and I looked at the girl. She had wrapped her woolen sweater snugly around her shoulders as if to escape some cosmic chill emanating from my person.

I looked up at the sky. The bright dotted outline of the goatibex’s face was swaying — sometimes coming closer, at other times moving farther away. Every now and then his big eye would wink. I was sure that this winking had some special significance, but exactly what it was, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out.

“Goatibex watching is a favorite pastime for tourists,” I said.

“Perhaps we should be on our way,” said the girl quietly.

“Well, go ahead,” I said calmly, at the same time letting them know that I was disappointed in them.

Seconds later they had disappeared from sight. I closed my eyes and began to ponder the significance of the goatibex’s winking. The sea’s refreshing coolness and the steady pounding of the waves lulled my senses and from time to time I would sink into oblivion, only to emerge seconds later like a piece of rock rising from the foam of an outgoing wave.

Suddenly I opened my eyes and saw two policemen standing before me.

“Let’s see your papers,” said one of them.

I mechanically reached into my pocket for my passport[6] and handed it to him. Then I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, it seemed as if a considerable amount of time had passed and I was surprised to see the two policemen still standing there.

“You’re not allowed to sleep here,” said one of them, returning my passport.

“I’m waiting for the Zugdidi bus,” I said, closing my eyes once again or, rather, easing up on my efforts to keep them open.

The policemen chuckled.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” one of them asked.

I felt something unpleasantly abnormal about my left arm and quickly raised it, only to discover that my watch was missing.

“My watch!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. “Someone’s stolen my watch!”

By now I was completely awake and completely sober. The sun had already come up and there was a raw wind blowing in from the mountain pass. The rollers were breaking heavily against the shore. Standing on a strip of beach across from us was an elderly tourist, doing his morning calisthenics. As he lowered himself slowly, painfully slowly on his long thin legs, I couldn’t help wondering if he would ever get up again. But having rested at the bottom of his deep knee bend, he managed to raise himself in slow, wobbling fashion. Once fully erect, he stretched out his arms and froze in position as if he were trying to regain his balance. Or perhaps he merely wished to listen to the inner workings of his body after this strenuous exertion.

The policemen had also been following the old man’s movements and now, no longer worried on his account, one of them turned to me and asked:

“What make was your watch — a Pobeda?”[7]

“No, a Doxa — a Swiss watch,” I replied bitterly, though not without feeling a certain pride at the magnitude of my loss.

“Who was with you?” asked the other policeman.

“I was alone,” I replied cautiously.

“We’ll go back to the station and file a report,” said the policeman who had taken my passport. “Then if it turns up, we’ll notify you.”

“Okay, let’s go,” I said. And we set off.

I felt very sad at the loss of my watch, which I’d come to think of almost as an old friend. It had been a high school graduation present from my uncle, and I had worn it all these years without anything ever happening to it. It was waterproof, shatterproof, antimagnetic, and its black shiny face gleamed like a miniature night sky. Several times during my student days at the Institute I had accidentally left it in the dormitory washroom, but the cleaning lady or one of my classmates had always returned it to me. Thus, over the years I had somehow come to believe that in addition to all its other virtues it was also theftproof.

“Do you have an import authorization form for your watch?” asked one of the policemen.

“How could I?” I replied. “It was war booty, my uncle brought it back in forty-five.”

“Do you remember the serial number?” he asked, continuing with his questions.

“No,” I answered, “but I’ll recognize it without that.”

We had cut diagonally through the park and come out onto a quiet, unfamiliar street. This street — as indeed every street in town — was lined with one-story houses mounted on long, rickety piles. The residents of this town were occupied solely with the building of such houses. And once they had built one, they would immediately begin selling it or exchanging it at additional cost for some other house which was supposedly more attractive — though in what way, one could never figure out, for all of these houses were as much alike as peas in a pod. The owners themselves scarcely had time to enjoy them, since for half the year they would rent them out to tourists in order to accumulate enough capital to begin frantically building a new house with even longer and ricketier legs. In this town a man’s whole worth was defined by the phrase: “He’s building a house.”

A man who’s building a house is an honest man, a decent and deserving man. A man who’s building a house is a man who keeps himself busy in his spare time, a man who has put down roots. If something happens, he’s not going to take off — which means he’s trustworthy. And a trustworthy man is a man you can invite to weddings and funerals, a man who would make a good son-in-law or a good father-in-law. In short, he’s a man you can do business with.

I mention all this not because it was here that my watch was stolen, but because such has always been my opinion of the town. Actually it’s not even a question of personal gain in this case, since the house or, more accurately, the process of building the house is merely a symbol for something else. If, for example, it were agreed that from this day forth a man’s worth was to be measured by the number of peacocks he had raised, everyone in town would immediately start raising peacocks and would soon be swapping them back and forth, feeling their tails and boasting about the size of their eggs. Man’s passion for self-esteem can take the strangest and most varied forms. The form itself is immaterial as long as it catches the eye and represents a sufficiently large investment of time and energy.

Passing through a creaking wicket gate, we entered the well-kept grounds of the local police station. A spreading mulberry tree stood in the center of the luxuriant green lawn, and placed conveniently under its leafy branches were some benches and a solidly anchored table for backgammon or dominoes. Between the lawn and the picket fence there was a row of young apple trees heavily laden with fruit. This was the most hospitable-looking police yard I had ever laid eyes on, and I could easily imagine the police chief sitting here with a flock of penitent criminals, putting up preserves on a fall afternoon.

We followed the well-beaten path which led up to the building and went inside. A policeman was sitting behind a wooden partition in the middle of the room, and right by the door a young couple was seated on a long bench. The girl reminded me of the girl I had seen the night before, except that now she wasn’t wearing a sweater. I gave her a questioning look.

One of my police escorts left the room. The other took a seat on the bench, and turning to me, he said:

“Well, go ahead and file your complaint.”

Then he took a good look at the young couple on the bench and glanced questioningly at the policeman seated behind the partition.

“Picked up wandering around without any papers,” the latter explained matter-of-factly.

The girl had turned her head and was now gazing in the direction of the open door. Once again she reminded me of the girl from the night before.

“Where’s your sweater?” I asked her, suddenly overcome by a desire to play detective.

“What are you talking about — what sweater?” she said with a haughty glance in my direction and then turned her head once again toward the door. The boy looked up in alarm.

“Excuse me,” I mumbled, “I mistook you for someone else.”

From her voice I realized that she was not the same girl. I have a bad memory for faces, but voices I remember very well. Taking out my notebook, I walked over to the partition and began thinking about how I would phrase my complaint.

“You can’t use that for an official statement,” said the policeman behind the partition as he handed me a clean sheet of paper.

I gave in, now realizing once and for all that my notebook was not destined for use on this assignment.

“Please let us go, comrade policeman,” the boy pleaded dully. “You’d think we’d committed a crime or something.”

“As soon as the captain arrives, he’ll decide what to do,” replied the policeman from behind the partition. His tone was clearly conciliatory, and the boy said nothing more. Through the open windows one could hear the distant scraping of the caretaker’s broom and the chirping of birds.

“How much longer do you expect us to wait?” the girl asked angrily. “We’ve already been sitting here for an hour and a half.”

“Now don’t get smart, young lady,” said the policeman without raising his voice or changing his position. He sat there at his table, with his cheek resting on one hand and a sad, sleepy look on his face. “The captain’s out making his rounds. There’s been a rape case,” he added after a moment’s reflection, “and here you are wandering around without any papers.”

“Now that’s what I call a brilliant association!” the girl retorted sarcastically.

“You’re too smart for your own good,” dolefully remarked the policeman without raising his voice. And he continued to sit there as immobile as ever, with the same sleepy look on his face.

When I had finished writing up my complaint, the policeman indicated with a glance that I should leave it on the table. Just at that moment the door opened at the back of the partitioned-off area and a tall, thickset man with slightly stooped shoulders entered the room, thoughtfully stroking his broad, handsome face with one hand.

“Well, here’s the captain,” the policeman exclaimed joyfully, now jumping up and yielding his seat to the captain.

“I wonder why we didn’t hear his car pulling up,” the girl remarked impudently and then turned once again toward the door.

“What’s the trouble?” asked the captain, taking his seat and gazing somberly at the girl.

“They were picked up wandering around without any papers,” reported the policeman in a loud, clear voice. “They were spotted on the shore at about four a.m. She claims that she didn’t want to wake up her landlady, and her escort’s staying at the other end of town.”

“Comrade captain,” the boy was about to begin, but the captain cut him short:

“You run and get your passport, and she can stay here as security.”

“But there aren’t any buses at this hour,” the boy objected.

“Never mind, young man, run along,” said the captain, now turning with a questioning glance toward me.

“Here’s his statement, comrade captain,” said the policeman, pointing to the table. The captain leaned forward and began reading my statement. The policeman who had escorted me to the station now stood at attention, ready to fill him in with any necessary details.

“Now don’t get upset, I’ll be right back,” the boy whispered to the girl and quickly departed. The girl made no reply.

Through the open windows came the scraping sound of the caretaker’s steadily approaching broom and the irrepressible warbling of birds. The captain’s lips moved slightly and, looking up at me, he asked:

“Do you have any identification?”

“It was war booty,” I replied, assuming that he was referring to the watch, “a gift from my uncle.”

“What’s your uncle got to do with it?” The captain asked with a frown. “Show me your passport.”

“Oh,” I said, handing him my passport.

“He was sleeping down by the shore,” interjected my policeman, “and after we woke him up, he said his watch had been stolen.”

“How strange,” said the captain, gazing at me with curiosity. “According to your statement you were waiting for the Zugdidi bus, and yet they found you sleeping down by the shore. Don’t tell me you were expecting the bus to come out of the sea?!”

The two policemen chuckled.

“The Zugdidi bus comes by at eleven in the evening, and we found him on the shore at six a.m.,” observed my escort, as if presenting some new challenge with which to test the captain’s ingenuity.

“Perhaps you were waiting for the return bus?” the captain suddenly surmised. One could tell that he was trying his best to make sense of my story and was suffering in the process.

“Yes, the return bus,” I said for no good reason, except perhaps to put the captain’s mind at rest.

“Well, that’s another matter,” said the captain and then, holding out my passport, he asked: “Where do you work?”

“I’m a reporter for Red Subtropics,” I replied, extending my hand to take the passport.

“Then why weren’t you staying at the hotel?” asked the captain. And now puzzled anew, he took back my passport and opened it for a second look. “This sort of thing makes a bad impression,” he commented, and clicking his tongue, he added: “What am I going to tell Avtandil Avtandilovich?”

Good Lord, I reflected, they all seem to know each other around here!

“Why do you have to tell him anything?” I asked. That was all I needed — to have the editor find out about my stolen watch! There would be all sorts of questions, suspicions — and in general, who wants anything to do with people who get into trouble?

“This does create a bad impression,” the captain declared thoughtfully. “You spend the night in our town and you lose your watch… What is Avtandil Avtandilovich going to think?”

“You know,” I said, “I think I may have left it at Walnut Springs.”

“Walnut Springs?” the captain gave a start.

“Yes, I was there on an assignment in connection with the goatibex.”

“Oh, I’ve heard, an interesting undertaking,” observed the captain, now listening attentively.

“I think I may have left my watch there.”

“Then we’ll call them up right away,” said the captain, his face brightening as he reached for the receiver.

“No, don’t bother!” I cried, taking a step forward.

“Aha,” said the captain, slapping his hands together. His face lit up with satisfaction at his own clever surmise. “Now I understand, they were making toasts…”

“Yes, that’s it, making toasts,” I confirmed.

“By the way, Vakhtang Bochua was out there too,” interjected my escort.

“So they were making toasts,” the captain went on with his explanation. “You ended up presenting your watch to one of them, and they presented you with a cigarette case,” he concluded, now beaming triumphantly in my direction.

“What cigarette case?” I asked, failing at first to see the connection.

“One of those silver ones,” the captain cheerfully elaborated.

“No, they didn’t give me anything in return,” I said.

“But they must have,” said the captain, amiably contradicting me. “Or at least they must have promised to give you something later on… But why are you standing? Have a seat.” And taking a package of Kazbek cigarettes from his pocket, he asked: “Do you smoke?”

“Yes. Thank you,” I replied, taking a cigarette. The captain gave me a light and then lit up his own cigarette.

At this point the policeman who had been standing behind the partition went out through the back door. My policeman continued to stand in place, though now partially supporting himself against the window sill.

“Last year I happened to be in Svanetia,”[8] said the captain, directing a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “The local police had a dinner in my honor; we ate and drank and afterwards they presented me with a deer. Now what on earth would I want with a live deer? On the other hand, to refuse it would have been considered a mortal insult. So I accepted their gift, promising to send them two cases of cartridges in return. And I did send them, as soon as I got home.”

“And you took the deer?” I asked.

“Of course,” he answered. “I kept it at home for a week, and then my son took it off with him to school. ‘We’re going to make it into a goatibex,’ he tells me. ‘Fine,’ I tell him, ‘do whatever you want with it. There’s no way we can keep it at home.’ ”

The captain took a long draw on his cigarette. Good-natured complacency was written all over his broad, handsome face. I was glad that he had forgotten about my watch; I would have had a rough time explaining what had happened to Avtandil Avtandilovich.

“The Svans are excellent cooks,” the captain continued to reminisce, “but that arrack spoils everything.” He looked at me and frowned. “A thoroughly distasteful drink — although I suppose,” he added in a conciliatory tone, “it’s all a matter of what you’re used to.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I replied.

“But that Isabella they have at Walnut Springs is as strong as bull’s blood…”

Yours isn’t bad either, I thought to myself.

Suddenly beginning to chuckle, the captain asked: “Did you get to meet that sleepy agronomist?”

“Yes, I did,” I replied. “Why does he sleep so much?”

“He’s quite a character,” said the captain, chuckling again. “It’s some sort of sickness he has. But despite all his sleeping, he’s still our number-one tea specialist. There’s no one in the district who can match him.”

“Yes, their tea fields are really magnificent,” I said, suddenly calling to mind the picture of Gogola bending over the green, luxuriant bushes.

“Last year there was a bit of excitement out at their kolkhoz. Someone walked off with their safe.”

“Their safe?”

“Yes, their safe,” said the captain. “I went out there myself to investigate. Someone managed to steal it, but they couldn’t get it open. The sleepy agronomist helped us find it. He’s a very smart fellow… But you know, Isabella really is a treacherous wine,” the captain continued, not wanting to digress too far from his main topic. “You gulp it down like lemonade and only later does it begin to hit you.”

He looked at me, then at the girl, and said to her:

“You’re free to go, young lady, only next time see that you don’t stay out so late.”

“I’ll wait for my friend here,” she said, turning her head brusquely toward the door.

“You can wait for him out in the yard. It’s a nice morning — the birds are singing,” said the captain and then added sternly: “And in the future don’t let yourself be picked up by casual strangers. All right now, get along with you!”

The girl went out without saying a word. The captain nodded in her direction and remarked:

“They’re offended when we take precautionary measures, and yet later on they themselves come running in to complain: ‘He raped me! He robbed me!’ Who he is or where he’s staying, she doesn’t have the slightest idea. And as to how she happened to be with him, she won’t say a word.” The captain turned to me with an offended look in his eyes.

“I suppose they’re too young to know any better,” I said.

“That’s just the point,” said the captain.

Out in the yard the birds were chirping away for all they were worth, and now the scraping of the caretaker’s broom could be heard right outside the front entrance.

“Kostya,” said the captain, turning to my escort, “go on out and water the front lawn and the sidewalk before it gets hot.”

“Yes, sir! Comrade captain,” replied the policeman.

“And tomorrow you’ll go to the circus,” added the captain, his words bringing the policeman to a sudden halt by the door.

“Yes, sir! Comrade captain,” the policeman repeated joyfully and then walked out.

“What circus?” I asked without stopping to reflect that this might be some sort of code word and, if so, my question would not be appreciated.

“The circus has arrived in town,” replied the captain matter-of-factly, “and we’re rewarding some of our best men by assigning them guard duty there.”

“Aha,” I nodded in comprehension.

“He’s a good man — smart and hard-working,” said the captain, glancing in the direction of the door. “Twenty-three years of service and now he’s even building himself a house.”

“Well, I guess I’ll be on my way too,” I said, rising.

“What’s your hurry?” asked the captain, and glancing down at his watch he declared: “The Zugdidi bus isn’t due in for another hour and forty-three minutes.”

I sat down again.

“But do you know what goes best with Isabella?” he asked, glancing at me with good-natured cunning.

“Shish kebab,” I replied.

“I beg your pardon, dear comrade,” objected the captain with obvious satisfaction. And now, having apparently concluded that I was an amateur who would have to be taken thoroughly in hand, he came out from behind his partition.

“Isabella should be served with stew meat and adzhika.[9] Especially meat from the loin — that’s where you get your chops,” he explained, slapping himself on the back. “But the leg isn’t bad either,” he added, hesitating somewhat, as if he wanted above all to be fair or in any case did not want to be accused of any culinary bias.

“Meat served with adzhika makes you thirsty,” said the captain, now halting in front of me. “You may not even feel like drinking any more, but your body demands it!” he added, joyfully flinging up his hands as if to say: there’s nothing you can do about it, once your body demands it.

The captain resumed his pacing.

“But white wine doesn’t go well with meat,” he suddenly cautioned, halting and looking anxiously in my direction.

“What does it go well with?” I asked eagerly.

“With fish,” he replied, “Goatfish,” the captain bent back one finger, “horse mackerel, mullet, or a fresh-water fish — mountain trout, for instance. Mm-m-m,” murmured the captain with satisfaction. “And all you need with the fish is damson sauce and some greens — nothing else.” And grimacing at the mere thought of any other side dishes or appetizers, he mentally brushed them aside with an energetic sweep of his hand.

The captain and I continued talking for a while until finally, when I was convinced that his thoughts had wandered sufficiently far afield from my watch, I shook his hand and said good-bye. But just as I was heading for the door, he called out:

“Here’s your statement; take it with you.”

He handed me the statement, and then apparently noticing that I didn’t enjoy being reminded of my missing watch, he added:

“Don’t worry, nothing’s going to come of it. The authorities regard gift giving as a harmless local custom. It’s quite acceptable in this part of the country.”

After this short legal briefing I said good-bye to him once again and finally left the building.

The freshly watered front lawn of the police station lay sparkling under the still cool morning sun. The policeman was energetically applying his hose to a young apple tree. Whenever a jet of water hit the tree, there would be a hollow rustling sound and a mighty quiver of gratitude would pass through its leaves and branches. Then from the still trembling leaves the water would come flying forth in a rainbow-colored spray.

The girl was sitting under the mulberry tree, keeping an eye on the front gate as she awaited her sweetheart’s return.

Out on the street I tore up my statement and threw it into a refuse container. I just barely made my bus and spent the entire return trip outlining my future article on the goatibex of Walnut Springs. It occurred to me that my grief over the loss of my watch would inject a note of pathos into my article, and this thought somewhat consoled me.