The Goatibex Constellation

VIII

They say that even a stone can be worn away by drops of water. How much more so, by Platon Samsonovich! And already the agricultural administration office had agreed to set aside the necessary funds for the purchase of some Tadzhik goats; and already Platon Samsonovich — unwilling to let things run their official course — had sent off a letter to our Tadzhik colleagues, informing them of the upcoming transaction; and already they had written back, letting him know that they had heard about our interesting undertaking and had been planning to acquire some goatibexes of their own; and already they had agreed to an exchange of animals and were planning to carry on their own breeding experiments simultaneously with ours; and already Platon Samsonovich had gone off to the experimental farm to persuade the breeding specialist to accept an allotment of long-haired Tadzhik goats. But just at this point the storm broke. And it broke on the very day when Platon Samsonovich was due back from the experimental farm.

On this same day one of the Moscow papers printed an article ridiculing certain unwarranted innovations in the agricultural field. Our republic was found to be particularly at fault for what was described as our “ill-advised promotion of the goatibex.” The article even called into question the genius of a certain well-known Moscow scientist whose experiments, it seemed, had proved something less than a complete success.[14]

Normally the Moscow papers didn’t arrive until evening or even the next day, but on this occasion we learned of the article’s contents on the same morning it was published. News of this sort always travels quickly.

I had never seen Avtandil Avtandilovich in such a state. He made several trips to regional Party headquarters in the course of the day and also placed a call to Party headquarters in the district where the experimental farm was located. Here he was informed that Platon Samsonovich had already boarded the bus and was on his way back to the city. The bus was scheduled to arrive at three p.m., and the editor called a general staff meeting for that hour.

By three o’clock we had all assembled in the editor’s office. Since the bus stop happened to be located right across the street, everyone tried to sit next to the window in order to catch a glimpse of Platon Samsonovich as he got off the bus.

All of us were in a state bordering on nervous exaltation. Platon Samsonovich was the only one who had wholeheartedly supported the goatibex, and we all knew that the main blow would fall on him. And like a man who has just found some snug, protected spot in which to wait out a storm, each of us experienced a delightful sensation of warmth and well-being.

Avtandil Avtandilovich sat apart from the rest of us, gazing somewhere off into space. Before him lay a typewritten copy of the article, which he had apparently obtained from the wire service. It was the first time he had ever forgotten to turn off the fan and now, caught in the fast-moving current of air, the pages of the threatening article seemed to quiver and squirm with impatience.

On two separate occasions our staff humorist got up from his seat and walked past the editor as if to examine the map of Abkhazia which hung on the wall behind his desk. Although we all realized that he would hardly be able to decipher anything on the article’s rippling pages, especially from behind Avtandil Avtandilovich’s back, still we tried to signal him by means of various facial contortions to let us in on the article’s contents. He, in turn, would grimace something to the effect that this was going to be an explosion to end all explosions.

With a mere nod of the head and without even bothering to turn around, Avtandil Avtandilovich ordered the staff humorist back to his seat.

Finally the bus drew up to the stop and we all crowded around the window to catch a glimpse of Platon Samsonovich. Having for some reason assumed that he would be the first to get off, we were suddenly taken aback to see a hunting dog leap through the bus door. And following right behind was the hunter himself with a whole bevy of quail hanging from his belt. He walked away from the bus with the cheerfully lumbering gait of a man weighed down with success. I wistfully envied both man and dog.

And elderly peasant woman with a basket of walnuts got off the bus and started across the street in the middle of the block. A traffic policeman blew his whistle, but instead of stopping, she began to run, spilling her walnuts on the way. She kept on running until she had reached the other side of the street.

Platon Samsonovich was one of the last to get off. He stood for a moment beside the bus, his jacket hanging limply from one shoulder. Then he suddenly started off in the opposite direction from the newspaper office.

“He’s walking away,” someone was the first to gasp.

“What do you mean, walking away?” asked Avtandil Avtandilovich in a threatening tone.

“I’ll go after him,” cried the humorist, dashing toward the door.

“Be sure you don’t tell him anything!” the editor shouted after him.

The rest of us stood by the window, not letting Platon Samsonovich out of our sight. With his jacket still slung over his shoulder he made his way slowly across the street. Having reached the other side, he suddenly halted by a soda water stand.

“He’s stopping for soda water,” someone noted in surprise, and we all burst out laughing.

The humorist came running out to the street and made his way to the nearest intersection. Raising one hand to shade his eyes from the sun, he began looking around in every direction. He didn’t notice Platon Samsonovich, however, because another customer had come up to the stand and temporarily blocked him from view.

The humorist stood at the corner for several seconds, peering anxiously about. Then, beginning to panic, he dashed across the street and continued walking in the direction of the sea. We watched with eager curiosity as he began to approach the soda water stand. But his gaze was fixed so resolutely ahead that he walked right by without even noticing Platon Samsonovich. Once again we all burst out laughing. But just at this moment Platon Samsonovich must have hailed him, for he wheeled around in surprise. He addressed a few words to Platon Samsonovich and then, motioning in the direction of the office, quickly moved on. Knowing that we were watching him from the window, he undoubtedly felt self-conscious and wanted to have as little contact with Platon Samsonovich as possible.

In the meantime all of the remaining passengers had left the bus. And now as Platon Samsonovich was making his way back to the office, the bus driver suddenly darted out into the street and began retrieving the walnuts dropped by the peasant woman. When he had gathered up every last one of them, he got back into the bus and drove off.

After what seemed like an interminable wait, Platon Samsonovich opened the office door and walked in. He greeted us with a nod and sat down. His face wore a look of gloomy concentration, and even from the way he was perched on the edge of his chair, one could tell that he knew everything. Or perhaps I only imagine this in retrospect.

“Well, did you arrange everything with the breeding specialist?” the editor asked calmly.

Platon Samsonovich’s tightly pressed lips began to tremble.

“Avtandil Avtandilovich,” he said in a hollow voice as he rose half stooping from his chair. “I know everything…”

“Well, who told you, I’d like to know,” asked the editor, now glancing at the humorist. The humorist threw up his hands in protest, then froze in position as if awaiting his fate.

“They reported it on the radio this morning,” said Platon Samsonovich, continuing to stand in the same half-stooping position.

“So you’re in the forefront here too,” the editor joked gloomily, trying to hide his disappointment at not being the first to break the news.

The editor gazed coldly at Platon Samsonovich, and as the seconds passed, it was as if the distance between them had increased to the point where he almost ceased to recognize him. Under the weight of this gaze Platon Samsonovich seemed to grow even more stooped.

“Have a seat,” said Avtandil Avtandilovich, addressing him in the tone reserved for chance visitors to the office.

In a clear, ringing voice the editor now began reading the article aloud. And as he read, gradually warming to his subject, he would occasionally cast a glance at Platon Samsonovich.

At first he seemed to include himself along with the rest of us in his recitation of our common errors and excesses. But as he kept on reading, the note of pathos in his voice continued to rise until suddenly it began to appear as if it were he himself, along with various other comrades, who had detected these errors. And by the time he finished, the tone of his voice had blended so well with that of the article in its rapid transitions from anger to irony that one might have imagined that it was he alone, without the help of any comrades, who had first noticed our mistakes and brought them boldly into the open.

Finally Avtandil Avtandilovich put down the article and declared the matter open for discussion. He spoke first and, to give him his due, he did criticize himself along with everyone else. For although he had in fact tried to call a halt to the ill-advised promotion of the goatibex (and for this very reason had insisted on printing the livestock expert’s critical commentary, if only in the “Laughing at the Skeptics” column), still, his efforts in this direction had been insufficiently energetic and for this he must take at least part of the blame.

The humorist, who had been fidgeting impatiently all the while, took the floor immediately after Avtandil Avtandilovich and reminded us that in his satiric sketch about the man who had defaulted in his alimony payments, he too had tried to make a veiled criticism of the ill-advised promotion of the goatibex. But not only had Platon Samsonovich ignored his criticism — he had even tried to malign him.

“Malign you?” suddenly exclaimed Platon Samsonovich, gazing gloomily at the humorist.

“Yes, politically!” the latter firmly asserted, gazing back at him with the eyes of a man who has once and for all thrown off the chains of his bondage.

“You’re exaggerating,” interjected Avtandil Avtandilovich in conciliatory fashion. He did not like broad generalizations unless he was the one to make them.

Avtandil Avtandilovich now proceeded to raise the question of Platon Samsonovich’s family life, which had inevitably suffered from the ill-advised promotion of the goatibex.

“His estrangement from the economic realities of collective farm life gradually led to an estrangement from his own family,” the editor summarized. “And this is quite understandable, for having lost all criteria for truth, he came away with an inflated sense of his own importance.”

After all of the staff members had voiced their individual support of his criticisms, Avtandil Avtandilovich took the floor once again — this time urging us to bear in mind that Platon Samsonovich was an old and experienced newspaper man who, for all his mistakes, was nonetheless devoted heart and soul to our common cause. Here too the staff was in complete agreement, and someone even quoted the saying to the effect that old horses shouldn’t be put out to pasture.

The humorist, once again unable to restrain himself, now broke in to remind us that such excesses were all too typical of Platon Samsonovich. Several years before, for example, he had tried to develop a new method for catching fish. His idea was to run high-frequency electric currents through the water, thus encouraging the fish to collect in one particular area, away from the electric currents. But what had actually happened was that the fish had left the bay and might never have returned, had his experiments been allowed to continue.

“That wasn’t the way it was supposed to work, you’ve got it all wrong,” Platon Samsonovich was about to object, but by this time everyone was too tired to listen to technical details of an old experiment.

As the individual most sensitive to the winds of change, the head of the propaganda section was appointed to replace Platon Samsonovich as head of the agricultural section. In order to make his transition as easy as possible, Platon Samsonovich was to be kept on in the capacity of literary assistant. He was also given an official reprimand. For the time being the editor decided to take no further measures against him, though only on condition that he return to his family and enroll in night school at the beginning of the fall semester. Platon Samsonovich had never been to college.

“And by the way, be sure you get rid of that goatibex horn,” instructed the editor as we were beginning to leave the room.

“The horn?” echoed Platon Samsonovich, his Adam’s apple jerking convulsively as he spoke.

“Yes, the horn,” repeated Avtandil Avtandilovich. “I don’t ever want to see it again.”

A few minutes later I saw Platon Samsonovich walk out of the building with the goatibex horn wrapped carelessly in a sheet of newspaper. As I pictured him returning to his solitary apartment with his solitary horn — now all that remained of his grand design — I felt a sudden wave of pity. But what was I to do? I could not bring myself to comfort him, nor would I have succeeded had I tried.

The Moscow article was reprinted in our paper, and the section dealing with the ill-advised promotion of the goatibex was put in italics for special emphasis. In the same issue there appeared an editorial entitled “The Ill-Advised Promotion of the Goatibex,” which contained a critical evaluation of our paper’s recent performance, and especially that of the agricultural section. The editorial also made reference to certain university lecturers who, without bothering to find out what it was all about, had thoughtlessly offered their services to the propagandizing of this new and as yet insufficiently investigated experiment.

While the writers of the editorial were obviously alluding to Vakhtang Bochua, they hesitated to attack him directly, since only a week before, he had presented the local historical museum with a valuable collection of Caucasian minerals.

Naturally, Vakhtang had seen to it that his gift did not go unnoticed. He had phoned in to the newspaper and asked us to have someone attend the presentation ceremony. The assignment was given to the staff photographer, who did indeed produce a memorable photograph of the occasion. Looking for all the world like a repentant pirate, Vakhtang was shown handing over his treasures to the shy museum director.

And now, only one short week after this magnificent display of altruism it seemed somehow inappropriate to bring up his name in connection with the goatibex.

Subsequent issues of the paper featured carefully screened reader responses to the attack on the goatibex. Here I should add that one of our staff members paid a special visit to the stubborn livestock expert in order to persuade him to write a long article against the goatibexation of the livestock industry. But the stubborn livestock expert remained true to character and flatly refused to write any such article. Apparently the subject no longer interested him.

After our publication of the Moscow article we were besieged with phone calls. Someone from the trade office, for example, called in to get our advice on what should be done about the name of the soft drink pavilion “The Watering Place of the Goatibex.” We also began to receive warning calls to the effect that in some kolkhozes goatibexes were being slaughtered. In this connection we advised the interested parties to avoid rushing from one extreme to another; instead they should see to it that the goatibexes were treated like any other animal and quickly integrated into the collective farm herd.

After consulting with the rest of us as to what to advise the trade office people, Avtandil Avtandilovich decided that here too there was no need to go to extremes. Rather than destroy the pavilion sign completely, they should merely eliminate the first syllable of the word “goatibex” as quietly and inconspicuously as possible, thus transforming the pavilion into “The Watering Place of the Ibex”—a much more romantic name as it seemed to me.

While the sign on the pavilion itself was quickly altered according to Avtandil Avtandilovich’s specifications, the neon sign above the pavilion proved to be somewhat of a problem. In fact, every night for a whole month afterward the letters of the old name, “The Watering Place of the Goatibex,” winked down impudently from on high. Thus one might have supposed that the watering place was frequented by ibexes during the day, while at night the stubborn goatibexes still held sway.

Certain members of the local intelligentsia began congregating in this spot for the express purpose of gazing up at the neon sign. For them it seemed to contain a hint of the liberals’ struggle against something or other, while at the same time offering concrete proof of the dogmatists’ wicked intransigence.

One evening as I happened to be entering the café next door, I myself saw some of these freethinkers gathered in a large if unobtrusive group outside the pavilion.

“There’s more to this than meets the eye,” declared one of them with a slight nod in the direction of the neon sign.

“Spit in my eye if this is going to be the end of it,” said another.

“My friends,” interrupted a prudent voice, “everything you say is true; still, you shouldn’t stare so openly at the sign. Just take a quick look and walk past.”

“Who does he think he is?!” protested the first one. “If I feel like looking, I’ll go ahead and look. This isn’t the old days.”

“No, but someone might get the wrong idea,” said the voice of prudence, peering cautiously around him. Then, noticing me, he immediately stopped short and added: “Well, as I was saying, the criticism has come at just the right time.”

They all looked over in my direction and, as if by command, began moving toward the café, now vehemently gesticulating as they continued their argument in barely audible tones.

During this same period I received a phone call from the business manager of the Municipal Opera and Choral Society, who wanted my advice as to what should be done about the goatibex song, which was still being performed by the tobacco factory choir as well as by several soloists.

“You see, I do have a financial plan to fulfill,” he said in an apologetic voice, “and the song is very popular…, and though its popularity may not be a good thing, as I can now appreciate, still…”

I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to consult Avtandil Avtandilovich on this particular matter.

“Please hold on for just a minute,” I said to the business manager, and putting down the receiver, I set off for the editor’s office.

After hearing me out, Avtandil Avtandilovich declared that any choral performances of the goatibex song were absolutely out of the question.

“And besides, the members of that choir are no more tobacco workers than I am,” he added abruptly. “But as far as the soloists are concerned, I think it’s all right for them to sing it, as long as they give the right interpretation to the words. The main thing now,” he concluded, switching on the fan, “is to avoid rushing from one extreme to another. Just tell him that.”

I conveyed the contents of our conversation to the guardian of the Municipal Opera and Choral Society, after which he hung up — rather pensively as it seemed to me.

Platon Samsonovich had not come to work that day. On the following day his wife appeared in his place and marched straight into the editor’s office. Several minutes later the editor summoned the chairman of the trade union committee, who subsequently told the rest of us what had happened. It seemed that upon hearing of the goatibex’s fate, Platon Samsonovich’s wife had gone to visit her husband in his solitary apartment and had found him lying in bed, the victim either of some sort of nervous disorder resulting from physical exhaustion or of physical exhaustion resulting from some sort of nervous disorder. In any case, they had now become reconciled once and for all, and Platon Samsonovich’s wife had rejoined her husband in the old apartment, leaving the new apartment to their grown children.

“There, you see,” said Avtandil Avtandilovich in a conciliatory tone, “healthy criticism actually contributes to the well-being of the family.”

“Well, the criticism may be healthy, but I’ve got a very sick man on my hands,” she replied.

“Well, there we can be of some help,” Avtandil Avtandilovich assured her, at the same time instructing the chairman of the trade union committee to obtain a sick pass for the ailing Platon Samsonovich.

Whether due to a quirk of fate or to some quirk of the committee chairman, Platon Samsonovich was sent off to a mountain health resort which until very recently had been named in honor of the goatibex. This particular resort, I might add, is one of the best in our Republic and is usually booked solid for months in advance.

About two weeks later, when the last volleys of goatibex counterpropaganda had finally died down, when the animals themselves had been utterly repulsed and their scattered and isolated numbers finally reconciled to joining the ranks of the collective farm herd — just at this time there took place in our city a one-day agricultural conference attended by our region’s most successful collective farmers. The conference had been convened to celebrate our Republic’s overfulfillment of its tea production quotas for the year — an event of no small importance since tea is our major crop.

Not surprisingly, Illarion Maksimovich’s kolkhoz at Walnut Springs numbered among our region’s most successful tea-raising collectives, and during the recess following the morning business session I happened to catch sight of Illarion Maksimovich himself. He was seated with the agronomist and Gogola at a small table in the conference hall restaurant. The two men were drinking beer, while Gogola was munching a pastry as she gazed wide-eyed at the other women in the room.

Just the day before, our paper had done a feature story on the tea growers of Walnut Springs, so I felt no qualms about approaching them. We exchanged greetings and they asked me to join them.

The agronomist looked the same as ever, but on the chairman’s face I noticed an expression of restrained irony — the same sort of expression one sees on a peasant’s face when he is forced out of politeness to listen to a city person hold forth on the subject of agriculture. It was only when the chairman turned to Gogola that his eyes showed any signs of life.

“Would you like another pastry, Gogola?”

“No thanks,” she replied absentmindedly as she continued to gaze at the women, all of whom had donned their party best for the occasion.

“Oh, come on, just one more,” said the chairman, trying to coax her.

“I don’t want another pastry, but a lemonade would be real nice,” she finally consented.

“A bottle of lemonade,” said Illarion Maksimovich, addressing the waitress.

“Well, are you happy that they’ve called off the goatibex?” I asked the chairman when he had finished filling each of our glasses with beer.

“It’s a fine undertaking,” he replied, “but there’s only one thing I’m afraid of…”

“What’s that?” I asked, eyeing him with curiosity.

He drained the contents of his glass and set it back on the table.

“If they’ve called off the goatibex,” he said pensively, as if gazing into the future, “that means they’ll be thinking up something new, and for our climatic conditions…”

“I know,” I interrupted, “for your climatic conditions it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“That’s it exactly,” confirmed the chairman, now completely serious.

“I really don’t think you have to worry,” I said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

“Well, let’s hope not,” he said slowly and then added: “But if they’ve called off the goatibex, there’s bound to be something new — though just what, I don’t know.”

“And what’s happened to your goatibex?” I asked.

“He’s joined the collective herd and is being treated like any other animal,” replied the chairman as if talking about something very remote, which no longer posed a threat.

The bell rang, and we returned to the conference hall. I said good-bye to them and stationed myself at the door so that I could make a quick exit later on. I was supposed to return to the office and write up my report as soon as the concert was over.

Pata Pataraya’s Caucasian dancers were the first to appear and, as always, these agile, light-footed performers were greeted with thunderous applause.

They were called back for several encores, and now appearing on stage along with them was Pata Pataraya himself — a slim elderly man with a resilient step. Heartened by the audience’s enthusiastic response, he finally treated us to his famed “knee flight,” dating back to the nineteen-thirties.

In performing this tour de force he would come flying onto the stage at lightning speed, suddenly drop down on his knees and then, with arms outstretched and head held proudly erect, he would slide on his knees diagonally across the stage as if making a beeline toward the loge reserved for top government officials. But at the very last second, as the audience sat paralyzed, half expecting him to topple into the orchestra, Pata Pataraya would jump up as if released by a spring and begin whirling in the air like a black tornado.

The spectators went wild.

When Pata Pataraya and his dancers had finally left the stage, the mistress of ceremonies announced:

“A chonguri[15] trio will perform a song without words.”

Three girls in long white dresses and white kerchiefs walked onto the brightly lit stage. They sat down and began tuning their chonguris, listening attentively and casting shy glances at one another. Then one of them gave a signal and they began to play. Their voices immediately took up the melody on the strings and they began singing in imitation of the mountaineer’s old-fashioned song without words.

The melody seemed strangely familiar and suddenly I realized that it was the former goatibex song, though now at a much slower tempo. A gasp of recognition passed through the hall, and glancing over in Illarion Maksimovich’s direction, I noticed that an expression of restrained irony still lingered on his broad face. Perhaps this was the expression he always assumed when visiting the city, and most likely it would not change until the moment of his departure. Gogola was sitting next to the chairman, her slim, pretty neck craned forward as she gazed up at the stage like one bewitched. And next to her, the sleepy agronomist sat dozing in his chair like General Kutuzov[16] at a military staff meeting.

The three chonguri players received even more applause than Pata Pataraya and were forced to sing two encores of their song without words — a song which for this particular audience had all the sweetness of forbidden fruit.

And although the fruit itself had proved extremely bitter — as no one knew better than the individuals in this hall — and although they were all very glad that it had been forbidden, nonetheless it was pleasant to savor its sweetness, if only the sweetness of its interdiction. Such, apparently, is the nature of man and such it is likely to remain.