The Goatibex Constellation

IX

Life in our editorial office had returned to normal. Platon Samsonovich had come back from his mountain resort completely restored to health, and on the day following his return he had asked me to go fishing with him. I was flattered by his invitation and accepted with pleasure.

As I have already mentioned, Platon Samsonovich was one of the most experienced fishermen along our shores, and if the fish didn’t seem to be biting in one spot, he would say to me:

“I know another spot…”

And I would start rowing toward the other spot. But if they didn’t seem to be biting here either, he would say:

“I know a completely different spot…”

And I would start rowing toward the completely different spot. But if even here they didn’t seem to be biting, then he would lie down in the stern and say:

“You might as well head back to shore; the fish have gone out to deeper waters.”

And I would head back to shore, for in such matters Platon Samsonovich’s word was law.

But this sort of thing happened rarely, and on this occasion, as was usually the case, we made a good haul. Platon Samsonovich was especially successful — he being one of those fisherman who would throw out ten lines at a time. His lines would be attached to flexible poles, and as the latter hung suspended over the side of the boat, he would somehow manage to keep up with the nibbles on each line without getting them crossed. And whenever he would give one of his lines a gentle tug, lifting it slightly and at the same time listening intently to what was happening down below, it was as if he were some fabulous puppeteer manipulating the strings of this underwater kingdom.

After we had tied up at the pier and come ashore, I feasted my eyes once again on Platon Samsonovich’s catch. Along with the other, more common varieties of fish flapping in his net, there was a beautiful sea cock — a prize species of the Black Sea and one that I myself had never succeeded in catching.

“Not only are you an expert, you’re lucky as well,” I commented enviously.

“Oh, by the way, I made an interesting discovery when I was fishing up in the mountains,” he said after a short pause.

We were walking along next to the sea wall — he with a whole netful of wet fish and I with my more modest catch in a small string bag.

“What sort of discovery,” I asked without much curiosity.

“Well, when I was looking for trout up there along the banks of the Upper Kodor, I just happened upon a fantastic cave…”

Something in his voice put me on guard. I stole a glance at his eyes and saw that once again they had their old, feverish glitter.

“There are thousands of such caves up in the mountains,” I sharply interjected.

“Not at all,” he replied heatedly, his eyes lighting up with a harsh, unpleasant glitter. “That cave had an unusual array of stalactites and stalagmites; they were like clusters of flowers of all different colors… I brought back a whole suitcaseful of samples.”

“And what are you going to do with them?” I asked, taking as distant a tone as possible.

“I want to get some Party officials interested in this… This is no mere cave, it’s an underground palace, a fairy tale, an absolute gold mine…”

Suddenly his face had a new, youthful look, and I realized that all the energy he had managed to store up during his stay in the mountains would now be expended on this cave.

“There are thousands of such caves up there in the mountains,” I dully repeated.

“If a cableway were installed, tourists could be whisked up to this underground palace straight from their steamships — and along the way they could take in the view of the Kodor Delta and the surrounding mountains…”

“That’s a distance of over a hundred kilometers,” I interrupted, “and who’s going to give you the money for a project like that?”

“It would pay for itself! It would pay for itself in no time!” he joyfully exclaimed, and dropping his fishnet onto the wall, he continued: “Tourists will come flocking by the thousands from all over the world. Straight from the boat to the cave…”

“Not to mention the fact that one shepherd will be able to tend two thousand goatibexes,” I broke in facetiously.

“What does this have to do with goatibexes?” he asked in genuine surprise. “It’s tourism that’s being promoted now. Did you know that Italy lives off its tourist trade?”

“Well, okay,” I said, “I’m going to stop for a cup of coffee. You can do as you please.”

“Wait a minute,” he called after me as I began walking away. I sensed that he was trying to involve me and I was determined not to let it happen.

“You see, I left the suitcase with the samples in the baggage room at the station,” he said shyly.

“No, I don’t see,” I replied coolly.

“Well, you can imagine, if my wife sees those stalactites and stalagmites, she’ll immediately start pestering me.”

“What has that got to do with me?” I asked, suddenly realizing what lay behind his fishing invitation.

“We’ll go and pick up the suitcase, and I’ll leave it at your place just for the time being…”

Having just returned from a day’s fishing, I had no desire to traipse across town to the railroad station, and I quickly replied:

“Okay, but it’ll have to wait till tomorrow. Your stalactites won’t spoil overnight, I trust.”

“Don’t be silly!” he exclaimed. “Why, they last for thousands of years — and these particular ones have an amazingly rare coloration, as you’ll see for yourself tomorrow.”

“Well, okay, till tomorrow,” I said.

“Good-bye,” he mumbled with a faraway look in his eyes as he carelessly picked up his netful of beautiful fish.

I hadn’t taken more than a few steps, when he stopped me again. I turned around.

“Don’t say anything about the cave for the time being,” he said, pressing a finger to his lips.

“Okay, I won’t,” I replied and quickly walked off in the direction of the café.

It was evening — one of those marvelous, still evenings typical of early fall in our area. The sun was sinking slowly into the sea, and the western end of the bay had become a mass of flaming gold. Toward the east the gold was gradually fading, taking on first lilac, then ashen hues. Still farther to the east both sea and shore had already blurred into a grayish-blue haze.

My thoughts returned to Platon Samsonovich. It occurred to me that he and others like him represented a new and strange type of innovator (or inventor or entrepreneur — call him what you will) typical of our era. Since it was the government itself which supported him, he could never go completely bankrupt, no matter how many times he might fail. And for this very reason, not only was his source of funds virtually inexhaustible, but his enthusiasm as well.

The café was filled with the usual old-timers, who sat drinking their coffee in small gulps, quietly savoring old memories. In one corner, where several tables had been pushed together, the young men were conversing with the noisy exuberance of youth.

I sat down at one of the tables, hanging my string bag on the back of my chair.

“Sweet or semisweet?” asked the waiter, nodding his head with the benign expression of some Oriental wise man. As he caught sight of my fish, a look of approval flashed across his round face which seemed to have been browned by sun and coffee alike.

“Semisweet,” I replied as usual.

I felt pleasantly exhausted after all my rowing, and at the moment I could imagine nothing more appealing than a cup of hot Turkish coffee topped with its fine brown foam.

So it is that I bring to a close my true story of the goatibex. And if I purposely omit any further reference to the girl whom I met on the pier, I do so not only to prove how elusive and self-controlled I can be, but also for the simple reason that her vacation had come to an end and she had already returned home to resume her studies. More to the point, she belongs to another chapter in my life — one which I’m happy to say has absolutely no connection with goatibexes.

The southern night came on quickly. I looked up at the sky, trying to locate the constellation which had once reminded me of the goatibex. But ever since that evening with Valiko, try as I might, I had never found anything even slightly resembling it. So too on this occasion: the sky was full of constellations, but the goatibex was nowhere in sight.

I sat there sipping my coffee, and each time I raised the cup to my lips and sucked in a hot, thick mouthful, I would feel at my elbow the gentle pressure of my string bag full of fish. It was as if my own dog were sitting behind me, thrusting his cold, moist nose into my elbow as a subtle reminder of his presence. The sensation was a pleasant one, and I didn’t change my position until I had drained the contents of my cup.