The Goatibex Constellation

VI

I decided to tell everyone at home that my watch had been stolen from my hotel room. My uncle took the news very badly — which rather surprised me since I had no idea he would still remember the present he had given me so many years ago. I should add that my uncle was reputed to be one of the city’s best taxi drivers, and about two days after my return he pulled up in front of our building with a cab full of passengers. Leaving his passengers in the cab, he came inside and began questioning me:

“Well, how did it happen?”

“I was sharing a room with someone and when I got up in the morning, both the man and my watch were gone,” I explained sadly.

“Well, what did he look like?” asked my uncle, already thirsting for vengeance.

“He was asleep when I came in,” I replied.

“Don’t be silly,” said my uncle. “Obviously he was only pretending to be asleep. Well, what happened after that?”

“When I got up in the morning, both the man and the watch were gone…”

“You’ve already said that,” he broke in impatiently. “Do you really mean to tell me that you didn’t notice what he looked like?”

“He was under the blanket,” I said firmly, not wanting to give him anything more concrete to go on. Knowing how determined my uncle could be, I was afraid that he might start rounding up all his more suspicious-looking passengers and herd them into the newspaper office for me to have a look at.

“He had his head under the blanket in this heat?!” my uncle exclaimed. “Why that alone should have made any intelligent person suspicious. Well, and where was your watch?”

“It was lying under my pillow,” I said firmly.

“How come?” he asked, frowning. “Why would you bother to take it off when it’s unbreakable?”

I didn’t take it off, I was about to object, but I caught myself just in time.

“Well, what did the hotel management say?” asked my uncle, not letting up on his questions.

“They said I should have turned it over to them for safekeeping,” I replied, remembering that such was the procedure at the public baths.

Sooner or later he would probably have tripped me up with his questions, had it not been for his abandoned passengers, who now began raising a fuss out front. First they blew the horn, then they started banging on our apartment window.

“The next time I pass through that town I’m going to stop off at that hotel and give ‘em hell!” was my uncle’s parting shot as he went dashing out onto the street.

He was so grief stricken over the loss of my watch that I began to wonder if he hadn’t perhaps been planning to reclaim it at some future date. But then it occurred to me that the loss of a gift must inevitably strike the gift giver as a form of ingratitude. For when a person gives us something, he is making a deposit, as in a savings account, from which he hopes to collect a small but fixed rate of interest. And when the gift is lost, he feels doubly cheated: for not only has he lost his original deposit, but his small percentage of gratitude as well.

Fortunately, an opportunity to pass through the ill-fated town did not immediately present itself and my uncle gradually calmed down. But I seem to be jumping ahead, and I need first to go back and describe the day of my return from Walnut Springs. True, this day has little to recommend it, but describe it I must if my story is to be complete.

The clock on the municipal tower was just striking nine when I entered my office. Platon Samsonovich was already at his desk and as he looked up, apparently startled to see me, his freshly starched shirt crackled, as if galvanized by the mere touch of his wizened old body.

I could tell that he had been struck by some new inspiration, since his flights of creativity were always celebrated by the donning of a clean shirt. Thus, although it might be objected from the standpoint of personal hygiene that Platon Samsonovich changed his shirts rather infrequently, in terms of intellectual creativity he was changing them constantly. Indeed, his mind seemed always to be operating at fever pitch.

“You can congratulate me,” he exclaimed. “I’ve come up with a new idea!”

“What sort of idea?” I asked.

“Just listen and I’ll tell you,” he replied, fairly beaming. He reached for a piece of paper and began writing down some formula, explaining it as he went along. “I propose that we crossbreed the goatibex with the long-haired Tadzhik goat, thus obtaining:

Of course the jumping ability of the second-generation goatibex will be somewhat diminished, but he’ll have twice as much hair. Pretty good, eh what?” exclaimed Platon Samsonovich, now discarding his pencil and gazing up at me with sparkling eyes.

“Where are you going to get a Tadzhik goat?” I asked, vaguely aware of some hidden danger lurking in his eyes.

“I’ll go to the agricultural administration office,” he said, rising. “They ought to support our efforts. Oh, how was your trip?”

“Okay,” I replied, sensing that his thoughts were elsewhere and that he was inquiring merely out of politeness.

He dashed to the door, but then suddenly returned to his desk, picked up the piece of paper on which he had written his new formula, and put it away in the top desk drawer. He locked the drawer with a key, jiggled it just to make sure, and then put the key in his pocket.

“Keep quiet about this for the time being,” he instructed me in parting, “and write up your article. We’ll submit it right away.”

There was a note of superiority in his voice — the natural superiority of the creative engineer over the ordinary technician. I sat down at my desk, took out my pen and reached for some clean sheets of paper. But I couldn’t think where to begin, and taking out my notebook, I started leafing through it, even though I knew there was nothing in it.

Anyone reading our paper would have supposed that all but the most ideologically backward collective farmers were busy raising goatibexes and nothing else. In the village of Walnut Springs, however, this was not quite the case. Realizing that it would be naive to make any direct attack on the goatibex, I decided to adopt Illarion Maksimovich’s approach — that is, to support the project as a whole, while making considerable allowance for local conditions. I was still deliberating on how to begin, when the door opened and a girl from the mail and supply room walked in.

“You have a letter,” she said, eyeing me strangely.

I took the letter and opened it. The girl remained standing in the doorway and only when I looked up at her, did she reluctantly leave the room, closing the door slowly behind her.

The letter was from Russia, from a former colleague at the youth newspaper. Word had reached them of our interesting undertaking, and the editor wanted me to write an article for them on the goatibex. For although I had left them, they still thought of me as one of their own — one whom they had nurtured and helped on his way. Such were the editor’s exact words, cited ironically by my friend. It was only in his private correspondence, I might add, that my friend ever indulged in irony.

The way the editor put it, it would appear that I had been nurtured by the youth newspaper and then left it of my own accord.

Nor was the remaining portion of the letter any more to my liking. Here my friend reported that he sometimes saw her in the company of the major. There were rumors that they had gotten married — but this wasn’t yet definite, he added in closing.

Of course it’s definite, I thought to myself as I put down the letter. I’ve noticed that people sometimes try to soften unpleasant news, not so much out of sympathy for us, the recipients, as out of sympathy for themselves. For who wants to have to utter the words appropriate to such occasions, to exhort us to keep a stiff upper lip or, even worse, to face up to reality?

I don’t want to exaggerate. The old wound didn’t reopen, nor was I about to slit my throat. In fact, all that I experienced was a dull ache, the sort of ache which rheumatics feel at the onset of bad weather. I decided, however, to put even this suffering to good use and to let it, along with my missing watch, contribute to the pathos of my article.

I have a theory that one’s personal failures can contribute to success if only one knows how to make use of them. I have had a lot of experience with failure and consequently have learned to put it to good use.

One should not, of course, take my theory too literally. If, for example, someone steals your watch, this doesn’t mean that you should immediately start learning to tell time by a sundial. Nor should you suddenly imagine yourself one of the proverbial few for whom time does not exist.

But all this is beside the point. What’s important is the emotion you feel — that righteous but unproductive fury which is an inevitable by-product of failure. This is fury in its purest form, and while it’s still seething in your blood, you should quickly channel it in the right direction and not let yourself get carried away by trifles in the process — which unfortunately is what most people tend to do.

Let us imagine, for example, a certain individual, who in a state of noble fury decides to make the most daring and momentous phone call of his life — and on a pay phone at that. Before he has even been connected, however, the telephone swallows his only coin. Quivering with rage, the man begins tugging at the receiver hook as if it were the ripcord of a parachute that refused to open. Then, even more illogically, he tries to thrust his head into the coin return which, being no larger than a matchbox, obviously cannot accommodate a human head. But never mind that, let us suppose that he does manage to thrust his head into this miserable aperture; what good will it do him? Even if he should happen to catch sight of his lost coin, he will hardly be able to scoop it out with his tongue.

Finally, having spent all his fury in this senseless pulling and tugging, he leaves the phone booth and, quite unexpectedly perhaps even for himself, takes a seat in a shoeshine stall. To look at him now, you would think that he was merely out for a stroll and had decided to stop and get a shoeshine on the way. Just as if his noble fury had never existed! And what is particularly revolting is the way he keeps fiddling with the new laces he has just purchased from the shoeshine man — first checking their tips and then comparing them for length. He continues to sit there for a long time, his lips slightly extended as if he were whistling to himself, and on his face the calm, businesslike expression of a fisherman letting out his nets or of a peasant fingering the old sack in which he plans to take his grain to the mill.

Ah, whither art thou fled, noble fury?

Another individual, having reached this exalted state, suddenly starts dashing after a little boy who has accidentally hit him with a snowball. Well, even supposing it was no accident, why on earth should a grown man go out of his way to chase a little boy, especially when there is no hope of catching him. For of course this little boy knows all of the yards and alleyways of the area like the palm of his hand. And to make things more interesting, he purposely slows down just enough so the man can keep him in sight.

Having squandered all his fury in this unexpected chase, the man suddenly comes to a halt in front of a warehouse and begins to watch some truckers unloading huge barrels from the back of a truck. So intently does he watch them, in fact, that one would think he had come running up for this very purpose. After a while, when he catches his breath, he even starts giving them advice. No one listens to him, of course, but they don’t interrupt him either. Thus, from a distance it might appear as if the truckers were actually working under his supervision, and if he hadn’t come running up in time, who knows what chaos might have resulted. Finally the barrels are rolled into the cellar and the man walks away appeased, as if all that had happened were a normal part of his daily routine.

Ah, whither art thou fled, noble fury?

As I was lost in these reflections, the door opened and once again the girl from the mail and supply room walked in.

“I’ve brought you some paper,” she said, placing a ream of paper on Platon Samsonovich’s desk.

“Thank you,” I replied. This time I was happy to see her; she had roused me from my daydreams.

“Well, what’s the news from Russia?” she asked with affected casualness.

“They want an article on the goatibex,” I replied equally casually.

She gave me a long, quizzical look and then walked out.

Once again I settled down to work. The goatibex emerged as the star of my article, far outshining everyone else. The village of Walnut Springs rejoiced at his presence, though unfortunately, due to local climatic conditions, the goatibex had taken a dislike to the local she-goats. I was just putting the finishing touches on this charming tableau when the phone rang. It was Platon Samsonovich.

“Listen,” he said, “couldn’t you hint in your article that some kolkhoz workers are already beginning to talk about the long-haired Tadzhik goat?”

“What are they supposed to be saying?” I asked.

“Something to the effect that while they’re happy with the goatibex, they want to keep moving forward. Otherwise these people here at the agricultural administration will start dragging their feet and refuse to cooperate.”

“But it’s all your own idea,” I objected.

“Never mind,” said Platon Samsonovich, sighing wearily into the receiver. “I’ll worry about the recognition later. Right now it would be better if the idea came from the masses. That will encourage these people here to take action.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said and then hung up.

I knew that certain sections of my article would not be to his liking, and in order to gain approval for these sections, I decided to support his new idea. But this was easier said than done. For thinking back over all the people I had met at Walnut Springs, I realized that not one of them could possibly have referred to a Tadzhik goat, except perhaps for Vakhtang Bochua — and Vakhtang hardly qualified as a kolkhoz worker. After much deliberation I finally decided to refer to the animal myself, at the end of the article and in such a way as to make it appear that the crossbreeding of the goatibex with the Tadzhik goat was a logical next step in the development of our livestock industry. “The time is not too far away,” I wrote, “when the goatibex will encounter the long-haired Tadzhik goat — an event which will mark yet another significant breakthrough for our Michurin school of biology.”

I read over what I had written, placing the commas as best I could, and then turned the article in to the typist. Having struggled with it for almost three hours, I was utterly exhausted. At the same time, however, I felt like a diplomat who has just pulled off a brilliant coup. For thanks to my skill and finesse, the goatibexes had been given their due and the chairman had emerged unscathed.

I left the office and went to have lunch at an outdoor café located in the courtyard of one of our seaside restaurants. I sat down at a table under a palm tree and ordered a bottle of Borzhom mineral water, some chebureki,[10] and two cups of Turkish coffee. After finishing the chebureki, I furtively wiped my hands against the shaggy trunk of the palm — the waitress having neglected as usual to bring any napkins. Then I settled back and began sipping the strong, thick coffee. Once again I pictured myself as a diplomat — an exceptionally skillful and experienced one at that. The hypnotic rustling of the palm leaves, the hot coffee, the cooling shade of the palm tree, the old men peacefully clicking their worry beads — all these things gradually drove the goatibex from my mind, and I sank into a blissful torpor.

At the next table the dentist Solomon Markovich was holding forth before a group of old-timers. Long ago, sometime before the war, his wife had slandered and deserted him, and from that time on he had started drinking and generally going to seed. He was a great favorite with the café regulars, who were always buying him drinks. Although their sympathy for him was probably genuine, still it is always pleasant to see someone who is even more unfortunate than ourselves. At the moment, he was relating parables from the Bible to his elderly Muslim audience, interspersing them with examples from his own life.

“… So they say to me: ‘Solomon Markovich, we’re going to put you on the bottle.’ And I say to them: ‘Why bother? You might as well put me right on the floor?’ ”

Every time Solomon Markovich caught sight of me, he would say:

“Young man, I’ve got quite a story for you, quite a story! Why, I’ll tell you the story of my life from the cradle to the grave.”

After this I usually had no choice but to order him a cognac and a cup of Turkish coffee. Every once in a while, however, I refused to go along with this ritual, either because I was pressed for time or was simply not in the mood to listen to someone else’s troubles.

I finished my coffee and returned to the office. On the way back to my desk I stopped off to pick up my article from the typist, only to be informed that the editor had taken it.

“You mean he actually came in for it himself?” I asked, feeling a sudden, inexplicable anxiety and, as usual, getting caught up in irrelevant details.

“He sent his secretary in for it,” she replied without letting up on her typing.

I went into my office, sat down at my desk and began to wait. The editor’s haste was not entirely to my liking since there were several points in my article that I felt needed to be worded more clearly and precisely. And in any case, I had wanted Platon Samsonovich to read the article first.

I sat there awaiting my summons. Finally the secretary came running in and announced in a frightened voice that the editor wished to see me. Although her voice always sounded frightened when relaying the editor’s requests, on this occasion I found it particularly disturbing.

I opened the door to Avtandil Avtandilovich’s office and saw, somewhat to my surprise, that Platon Samsonovich was there too.

The editor was sitting in his usual pilot’s pose. He had turned off the engine but was still in the cockpit. The greasy blades of the fan looked like the giant petals of some tropical flower — most likely a poisonous one. One could easily imagine that Avtandil Avtandilovich had just flown over the locale of my assignment and was now making a comparison between what he had seen and what I had written.

Next to this tall, dashing pilot the diminutive Platon Samsonovich looked at best like a mere mechanic. And at the moment he looked like a mechanic who had made a mistake. Approaching Avtandil Avtandilovich’s desk, I felt a sudden chill emanating from his presence, as if he were still enveloped in the high-altitude atmosphere from which he had just descended.

So great was this atmospheric chill that I felt I was beginning to grow numb. I tried to shake off this humiliating sense of paralysis, but nothing came of it, perhaps because he kept silent.

Suddenly it occurred to me that my article was thoroughly confused and mistaken. And now as all my errors came vividly to mind, I could only wonder how I had managed to overlook them before. Particularly unpleasant was the realization that I had even confused Illarion Maksimovich’s name, referring to him instead as Maksim Illarionovich.

Finally, when the editor sensed that I had reached the necessary degree of paralysis, he proclaimed in a voice calculated to maintain this paralysis:

“Your article is hostile to the goatibex.”

I looked at Platon Samsonovich; Platon Samsonovich looked at the wall.

“Moreover, you tried to disguise your hostility,” added Avtandil Avtandilovich, obviously enjoying my discomfort. “At first even I was taken in by it,” he continued. “Some of your similes and comparisons are quite good… Nonetheless, your article represents a revision of our basic position.”

“Why a revision?” I asked, my voice rising from some great depth where patches of unfrozen consciousness still remained.

“And what’s all that nonsense about local climatic conditions — the goatibex and the microclimate? What do you think we’re raising — oranges and grapefruit?”

“But he really does refuse to have anything to do with the local goats,” I said in an agitated voice, trying to disarm him with hard, cold fact. And suddenly I realized beyond the shadow of a doubt that there had been no mistakes in my article and that I had referred to Illarion Maksimovich throughout by his right name.

“Which only means that they haven’t yet learned to handle him properly, that they haven’t explored all possibilities… And you let yourself be taken in by them.”

“It was that chairman Illarion Maksimovich who pulled the wool over his eyes,” interjected Platon Samsonovich. And turning to me, he added: “After all, I did tell you that your article should be organized around the theme: ‘Tea is fine, but meat and wool are better.’ ”

“And you can be sure,” the editor interrupted him, “that if we give these chairmen any loopholes like this business with the microclimate, they’ll all start screaming that their microclimate is unsuitable for raising goatibexes… And to have this happen now, just when the whole country is taking an interest in our undertaking…!”

“Well, aren’t we and they supposed to be the same thing?” I blurted out without stopping to reflect. Well, now I’m done for, I thought to myself.

“There, you see, that just goes to show what backward notions you have,” replied the editor in a surprisingly mild tone and went on to ask: “By the way, what was that nonsense about the long-haired Tadzhik goat — where on earth did you get that from?”

I noticed that he had calmed down right away. Apparently I was responding just as he had intended.

Platon Samsonovich pursed his lips, and red splotches appeared on his temples. I kept silent. Avtandil Avtandilovich cast a sidelong glance at Platon Samsonovich, but didn’t say a word. Apparently he wanted to give both of us time to feel the full weight of my fall. Once again I began to think that everything was lost, though it occurred to me that if he were going to fire me, he should have seized upon my last words. Yet for some reason he had chosen not to.

“Redo it in the spirit of full-scale goatibexation,” said the editor with a meaningful look as he flung the manuscript in Platon Samsonovich’s direction.

How does he know that word, I wondered, now waiting for what would come next.

“I’m going to transfer you to the cultural section,” said the editor in the tone of a man who is doing his utmost to be fair. “You know how to write, but you don’t have any knowledge of life. We’ve decided to have a contest for the best literary piece on the goatibex. You’re to take charge and see to it that it’s conducted in a serious, professional manner… That’s all I have to say.”

Avtandil Avtandilovich turned on the fan, and his face gradually began to stiffen. And now as Platon Samsonovich and I made our way out of his office, I had a fearful vision of his airborne plane swooping down on us with a volley of machine-gun fire. Only after the heavy office door had slammed shut did I regain my composure.

“It’s fallen through,” said Platon Samsonovich as we started down the corridor.

“What’s fallen through?” I asked.

“The Tadzhik goat,” he replied. Then rousing himself from his daydreams, he added: “You didn’t handle it right. You should have let the idea come from one of the kolkhoz workers.”

“Okay, okay,” I replied. I was fed up with the whole business.

“Goatibexation! The way he throws words around!” grumbled Platon Samsonovich, nodding in the direction of the editor’s door.

We returned to our office and I began gathering up the contents of my desk drawer.

“Don’t feel bad, I’ll manage to have you transferred back here later on,” promised Platon Samsonovich. “Oh, by the way, is it true that the paper you used to work for has asked you to send them an article?”

“Yes, it’s true,” I replied.

“Well, if you’re not in the mood, I could do it for you,” he said, brightening.

“Fine. It’s all yours,” I replied.

“I’ll do it this evening,” he said. By now he had thrown off the last traces of his despondency and, nodding once again in the direction of the editor’s office, he muttered: “Goatibexation! Some people play around with words; others get things done.”

Later that same afternoon a terrible thing happened to me as I was walking along the main street of town. A man wearing a brand new suit was standing near me on the sidewalk, gazing into the display window of a department store. Behind the window stood several mannequins. These mannequins were dressed exactly like the man — so much so, in fact, that I couldn’t help thinking how alike they were. But no sooner had this thought flashed through my mind than one of the mannequins began to move. I was stunned though at the same time I had enough common sense to realize that this must be some sort of hallucination. Mannequins don’t move — we haven’t yet come to that.

But before I could collect my thoughts any further, the mannequin that had begun to stir suddenly defied all laws of nature by turning on its heels and walking calmly away. I was still recovering from this shock, when suddenly the other mannequins began to stir. They stirred for a moment, then they too turned on their heels and followed calmly after the first one.

Only after they had all come out onto the street did I realize that this conspiracy of mannequins was merely some sort of optical illusion which had been intensified by my fatigue, nerves, and who knows what else. For what I had taken to be a department store was actually a glass partition, and the people whom I had taken for mannequins had merely been standing on the other side of the glass wall.

I need a breath of fresh air, otherwise I’ll go mad, I thought to myself as I hastily directed my steps toward the sea.

I have always hated mannequins. Ever since childhood the very sight of them has filled me with loathing and disgust, and even now I fail to understand why such an abomination is tolerated. For a mannequin is quite a different thing from a scarecrow, which does at least have some character of its own. And while the scarecrow may frighten children for a short time and birds for a somewhat longer time, still it does not really offend us. There is, on the other hand, something brazen and vile in the mannequin’s striking resemblance to man.

Do you really believe that the mannequin’s only function is to model a suit of clothes? Don’t be naive! The mannequin wants to prove to us that it is possible to be a human being even when lacking a soul. Moreover, he urges us to follow his example. And by always modeling the latest fashions, he seems cynically to suggest that it is he who points the way to the future.

But we can’t accept his future because we want our own, human future.

When I gaze into a dog’s eyes, I find something resembling a human look, and I respect this look. I see the millions of years that separate us, but at the same time I see that the dog has a soul, a certain shared humanity. The dog seems to sense this common humanity and to respond to it. Undoubtedly it is the dog’s capacity to respond to us as humans which evokes a similar responsiveness in us and, in fact, strengthens our own humanity. For when a dog barks joyfully at our approach, we instinctively respond and our hand reaches out to pat him.

I admire the parrot’s talents — its vocal cords and its mechanical memory — but the parrot is far behind the dog. The parrot is interesting and exotic, but the dog is beautiful.

We are often willing to use an imprecise word to designate the essence of something. But even if we manage to be precise in our designation, the essence itself may change, while its designation, the word, still continues to be used, preserving not the essence, but only its outward form, just as an empty pod preserves the rounded contours of the long-discarded peas. Errors of terminology or of perception — and usually we are guilty of both — lead in the end to a confusion of concepts. And in the last analysis, a confusion of concepts is but a natural outgrowth of our indifference — our insufficient concern for the essence of the concept, or insufficient love. For is not love the highest form of concern?

Sooner or later we are forced to pay for our indifference. And only then, still nursing our bruises, do we begin to call things by their right names. In the meantime we continue to confuse parrots with prophets simply because we have given little or no thought to the subject of man and the source of his greatness. Why — because we have little respect for ourselves, for those around us, and for life itself.

About three days later I happened to be eating lunch in the same outdoor café, when who should appear but Vakhtang Bochua. Dressed in a spanking-white suit and as rosy-cheeked as ever, he was a radiant vision of pink and white. Accompanying him were an elderly gentleman and a woman who was dressed with the gay abandon of a fortuneteller. Catching sight of me, Vakhtang halted.

“How did the lecture go?” I asked.

“The collective farmers were moved to tears,” he replied with a smile. “Oh, and by the way, you owe me a bottle of champagne.”

“What for?” I asked.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard!” he exclaimed in surprise. “It was yours truly who dragged you out from under the wheels of history. Avtandil Avtandilovich wanted to bid you farewell, but I told him it would be over my dead body.”

“What was his reaction to that?” I asked.

“He accepted the fact that this was one place where the wheels of history were going to get stuck,” said Vakhtang. Then, giving his mighty stomach a loving pat, he added: “You’ve been granted a stay of execution.”

He stood before me ruddy, portly, smiling and invulnerable. He himself seemed rather amazed at his own boundless capacities and now was eagerly trying to think of something else with which to impress me.

“Do you know who they are?” he asked with a slight nod in the direction of his companions. The latter had already taken a table and from their seats were casting fond glances at Vakhtang.

“No,” I answered.

“My friend, Professor (he gave his name), the world-famous mineralogist, and with him his favorite student. By the way, he’s given me a collection of Caucasian minerals.”

“How come?” I asked.

“I don’t know myself,” replied Vakhtang, throwing up his hands in mock despair. “I guess he just likes me. I’ve been taking him around to different historical sites.”

“Vakhta-a-ang, we miss you,” the favorite student drawled capriciously.

Even the professor was gazing in our direction with an affectionate smile. He was casually garbed in linen trousers and sandals, and his long legs protruded from under the table like those of some lanky, absentminded adolescent.

“And that’s not all,” said Vakhtang, still smiling. And shrugging his shoulders as if to express his amazement at the vagaries of human behavior, he added: “He’s even promised to leave me his library.”

“Well, see that you don’t do him in for the sake of his wealth,” I said.

“What do you mean!” protested Vakhtang with a smile. “Why, he means as much to me as my own father…”

“Greetings to our golden youth,” interjected Solomon Markovich, suddenly appearing from out of nowhere. He stood before us — small, wrinkled and alcoholically preserved for life in his quiet but persistent sorrow.

“My dear Vakhtang,” said Solomon Markovich, “I’m an old man. I don’t need a hundred grams of vodka; a mere fifty will do.”

“That you shall have,” said Vakhtang, and taking Solomon Markovich’s arm in lordly fashion, he directed him to his table.

“And here is one more of our archaeological rarities,” said Vakhtang by way of introduction. And pulling up a chair for him, he added: “Please welcome the wise Solomon Markovich.”

Solomon Markovich sat down and in a quiet and dignified manner began:

“Yesterday I was reading a certain book; it’s called the Bible.”

He always began this way, and it now occurred to me that his approach to life was a good illustration of my theory of failure and how to make the most of it. For from the great failure of his life he had extracted one small but enduring triumph: the privilege of daily libations at others’ expense.