The Goatibex Constellation

VII

I had been quietly at work in the cultural section for about a month. The furor in connection with the goatibex campaign had not yet died down, but by now it no longer bothered me. I had gotten used to it, just as one gets used to the sound of waves pounding against the shore.

The high-level regional conference to promote the goatibexation of our Republic’s kolkhozes had already taken place, and although a few critical voices had been raised against the measure, they were quickly drowned out by the clamor of the triumphant majority.

Our paper’s contest for the best literary piece on the goatibex was won by an accountant from the Lykhninsky Kolkhoz. He had written a satiric ode entitled “The Goatibex and the Hardheaded Chairman,” the last stanza of which read as follows:

I take up my pen in praise of the goatibex,

For despite what the hardheaded chairman may say,

The animal’s meat and its beautiful horns

Have made their mark and are here to stay.

To appreciate the biting effect of this stanza one needs to know something of the poem’s background. For the poem was actually based on a real-life incident.

On a certain kolkhoz a goatibex had almost gored the kolkhoz chairman’s small son. According to Platon Samsonovich, the little boy had frequently teased and made fun of the defenseless animal, taking advantage of his father’s position to do so. The goatibex had given the child a good scare, it seemed, but had not inflicted any serious injuries. Nonetheless, acting at the insistence of his infuriated wife, the chairman had ordered the local blacksmith to saw off the animal’s horns.

It was at this point that the secretary of the village soviet had written in to us. Platon Samsonovich was outraged by the incident and the very next day went out to the kolkhoz to see for himself what had happened.

It turned out that everything the secretary had written was true. Platon Samsonovich even brought back with him one of the goatibex’s horns (the other, as the kolkhoz chairman was embarrassed to admit, had been dragged off somewhere by a dog). Every one of our paper’s employees came trooping into Platon Samsonovich’s office to see the famous goatibex horn; even the phlegmatic typesetter made a special trip up from his presses to have a look at it. Platon Samsonovich was delighted to be able to show it off and, in doing so, he would direct everyone’s attention to the traces left by the blacksmith’s barbarous saw. The horn was brown and heavy like the tusk of some antediluvian rhinoceros, and the head of the information section, who also happened to be the chairman of the paper’s trade union committee, suggested that we turn it over to a local craftsman and have it converted into a drinking horn for use at staff picnics.

“It could easily hold three liters,” he said, scrutinizing the horn from every angle. His suggestion, however, was indignantly rejected by Platon Samsonovich.

In connection with this same incident Platon Samsonovich wrote a satirical sketch entitled “The Goatibex and the Hardheaded Chairman,” in which he gave the kolkhoz chairman a merciless going-over. He even suggested to the editor that his sketch be supplemented by a photograph of the dishonored animal, but after some reflection Avtandil Avtandilovich decided to let it go with the sketch.

“They might take it the wrong way,” he replied, though exactly who the “they” was, he did not bother to explain.

So it was that when the Lykhninsky accountant submitted his poem of the same title, it received Platon Samsonovich’s full backing and was virtually assured of first place, since Platon Samsonovich was the most influential member of our contest jury and its only technical expert. Nor did the editor have anything against the poem; he merely observed that the last two lines would have to be revised in such a way as to pay tribute to the goatibex’s wool along with his meat and horns.

“We don’t yet know which is going to be more important for the economy,” he said and then suddenly came out with his own improved version of the last stanza, which was now amended to read as follows:

I take up my pen in praise of the goatibex,

For despite what the hardheaded chairman may say,

The animal’s meat, its wool and its horns

Have made their mark and are here to stay.

The author had no objection to Avtandil Avtandilovich’s slight revision and shortly afterward the poem was even set to music. The tune was a popular one, or at least so one would judge from the fact that it was frequently played on the radio. It was also sung on stage by an amateur choir from the tobacco factory — the choir consisting in this case of members of the Municipal Opera and Choral Society. Scarcely recognizable in their folk dress, the latter sang under the direction of the now rehabilitated Pata Pataraya, a performer of Caucasian dances who had been popular in the thirties.

As for the horn, it remained in Platon Samsonovich’s office, surmounting a pile of unfiled papers as a visible reminder of the need for vigilance.

Most of my time in the cultural section was spent processing our readers’ letters (usually complaints about the poor performance of their village social clubs) and their attempts at verse.

The verses were devoted largely to the goatibex and, strangely enough, the majority of them came pouring in after the contest was already over. Many of them even bore the heading: “Entered for the next contest,” though in fact no such contest had ever been announced.

Some contributors, and especially the elderly and the retired, would let it be known in an accompanying letter that they had been well provided for by the State and hence had no need for any prize money. If, however, they would go on to add, there were some young staff writer who would be willing to make whatever corrections were necessary for the poem to be printed, then his modest efforts would not go unrewarded; for all forms of labor should be remunerated, etc., etc. At first I was annoyed by these references to a young staff writer, but eventually I got used to them and no longer paid any attention.

In my initial replies to these contributors I politely hinted that creative writing requires a certain amount of talent and even some familiarity with literature. After a few days, however, Avtandil Avtandilovich called me into his office and informed me that in the future I would have to be more tolerant. Pointing to a particularly candid section of one of my more recent replies, which he had underlined with red pencil, he said:

“You can’t tell a person that he hasn’t any talent. It’s our responsibility to educate people’s talents and to encourage their creative efforts, especially those of ordinary workers.”

By this time I had managed to discover Avtandil Avtandilovich’s one great weakness. This powerful individual would freeze like a rabbit when under the hypnotic spell of a cliché. And if at the moment he happened to be promoting some new political cliché, it was literally impossible to win him over by logical argument. Instead, one had to fire up his enthusiasm with some other cliché—one that was even more up to date than the first. Thus, when he began talking about the education of talent and the creative efforts of ordinary workers, I was immediately reminded of the old cliché about not flirting with the masses. I didn’t have the courage to quote it, however, nor did it quite seem to fit this particular situation.

After my meeting with the editor I began replying to our contributors with even less enthusiasm than before. Clenching my teeth and fuming with rage, I would cynically advise them to study the classics — and especially Mayakovsky.[11]

During this same period I had several out-of-town assignments, and each time I returned with an article, I knew in advance which sections would be to the editor’s liking and which would not. And for those sections which were destined for deletion I did what little I could, making them stylistically as attractive as possible.

Things were proceeding pretty much as usual when something occurred which, while in no way related to the goatibex, was nonetheless to have a certain influence on my life.

One evening I was sitting with some friends on top of the sea wall, gazing down at the double stream of smartly dressed people who kept passing one another on the street below. And perhaps because of their constant movement — their jostling and intermingling — there was an air of excitement about them which conveyed itself to us.

Black pants, pointed shoes, a dazzling white shirt, and a pack of Kazbek cigarettes stuck in one’s belt like a cowboy pistol — such was the summer attire of our southern Don Juans.

The evening promised nothing special, nor were we expecting anything out of the ordinary. We were simply sitting and enjoying ourselves, gazing idly at the passers-by and making the extravagant comments men usually make on such occasions.

Then she appeared — a young girl in the company of two elderly ladies. As they passed right beside us on the sidewalk, I managed to catch a glimpse of her charming profile and luxuriant, golden hair. She was a most attractive girl. Only her waist struck me as overly slender; there was something old-fashioned about it — something from the era of stays and corsets.

She was politely and submissively listening to what one of the ladies was saying. But I didn’t have much faith in her submissiveness; it seemed to me that a girl with such full lips was not likely to be very submissive.

I followed her with my eyes until she and her companions had disappeared from sight. Fortunately, my friends hadn’t noticed her. They had been so absorbed in watching the street below that they had failed to see what was right under their noses. I continued to sit there for a while, but my friends’ conversation no longer reached me. I was so immersed in my thoughts that their voices seemed to be coming from far away, as if across a broad expanse of water.

I couldn’t get the girl out of my mind. I wanted to catch sight of her again and as quickly as possible. Not that I feared any competition from our local dandies. With their languorous gait and silly cartridge belts stuffed full of half-empty cigarette packs, they were simply not her type — of that I was sure. No, in this case the challenge lay elsewhere. And what a pleasant challenge it would be to deliver her from under the overly protective wing of two elderly ladies.

Without further delay I took leave of my friends and started off down the street. The chances of finding her in such a mass of humanity seemed very remote, but by now she was fixed in my mind. And once a person is fixed in your mind, however slightly, you can be sure that somehow, somewhere your paths will cross. Well, I thought to myself, if this is the way I feel about this girl, I must finally be cured of the old one. The major had proved a good doctor, and now in my willingness to be afflicted once again I saw the sure sign of my recovery. I began to look for her.

Although I knew that I would eventually find her, I hadn’t the slightest idea what would happen after that. For the moment, I simply wanted to convince myself that she had in fact appeared before me and was not merely a figment of my imagination.

Suddenly, as I was approaching the small pier used by our local fishing and excursion boats, I saw her in the distance, leaning against the guardrail and gazing into the water. She was wearing a simple white blouse and a very full skirt which made her tiny waist look even tinier. She had the sort of figure which can be cut with a pair of scissors, as we say in Abkhazian.

Sitting on a bench nearby were the two ladies with whom she had walked so submissively along the embankment.

In connection with these ladies I should point out that many people have a distorted view of our region and of the Caucasus in general. Most of the rumors about girls being kidnapped, carried off into the mountains, etc., etc., are sheer nonsense. Nonetheless they continue to circulate and many people believe them.

Be that as it may, the girl’s lady companions were now sitting so close to her that if any abduction had been attempted, they could easily have reached out and grabbed the edge of her skirt without even rising from their seats. This same skirt was now flapping widely and freely around her legs like the flag of some independent but thoroughly reliable power.

Still debating what to do next, I made my way to the end of the pier. Then as I turned around and started back, I decided to throw caution to the winds and come to a halt beside her. In so doing, I would take advantage of the one tactical error committed by her escort: her seaward flank had been left unguarded.

The sea was my ally, and now as I made my approach, a light breeze began blowing at my back like a friendly hand urging me on to some daring act. All of a sudden a gust of wind lifted her skirt so high that I had the feeling she would fly off before I could reach her. I hastened my steps involuntarily. But now, without even bothering to look, she clapped down her skirt with her hand — as if she were merely closing a window to keep out a draft. Or perhaps this is the way one collapses a parachute. Although I myself have never parachuted and, needless to say, never intend to, for some reason the image of a parachute, and specifically a collapsed one, persists in my mind.

But how was I actually going to strike up a conversation with her? Suddenly it came to me! I would pretend that I too was a tourist. For some reason tourists usually trust each other more than they do the local residents. And as for her being a tourist — this was apparent at a glance.

And so I walked up and stood beside her. I stood there quietly and unobtrusively, as if I just happened to be out for a stroll and had decided to stop and have a look at the Black Sea splashing here in this out-of-the-way spot where there were no tourists to appreciate it. And not wanting to give any grounds for suspicion, I didn’t even glance in her direction.

Right beneath us, gently knocking against the iron ladder of the pier, was a small skiff which belonged to the fishing boat anchored a short distance away. It was this skiff that she was looking at. In retrospect one could say that she was staring Fate straight in the eyes, but at the time I didn’t know this. I noticed only that she was gazing at the skiff somewhat pensively, as if perhaps she were thinking of using it to make a getaway from her companions. Needless to say, I would have been happy to offer my services, if only as rower.

I stood beside her, growing stiffer by the minute and realizing that the longer I waited, the harder it would be to start a conversation.

“I wonder what kind of boat that is,” I finally mumbled, turning toward her — but only halfway, at a forty-five degree angle. It would be hard to imagine a more idiotic question. The girl gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.

“How strange,” I said, pursuing the same foolish line of thought, as if the sight of a skiff tied up at a pier were something to be marveled at. “They say that the border’s very close,” I continued boldly, at the same time wanting to bang my head against the guardrail.

“Why strange? Do you think they might be smugglers?” she asked with enthusiasm.

“At the tourist home they told us that…,” I began confidently, without the slightest idea as to what I was going to say next.

Just at that moment there was a shuffling of boots, and two men began descending the iron ladder. One of them was carrying a large wooden basket covered with a towel; the other had a sack slung over his shoulder.

I broke off in midsentence and laid a finger to my lips.

“How exciting,” whispered the girl. “What are they going to do?”

I gave a slight shake of my head as if to indicate that nothing good could be expected from such men. The girl bit her lip and huddled even closer to the guardrail.

The man with the basket jumped into the bow of the swaying skiff, hopped over the front and middle seats and sat down in the stern, placing the basket between his legs. Before I could collect myself, he raised his dark, ruddy face in a smile and nodded in my direction. He was one of the fishermen with whom I had gone out on my first assignment some time before. His name was Spiro.

“Greetings to our friends from the press!” he called out, his white teeth flashing.

Blushing involuntarily, I gave a slight nod in his direction. But it was too late to shut him up.

“You sample our fish, but write about the goatibex,” he shouted and then, taking in both of us at a glance, he added: “An interesting undertaking, to say the least…”

“How’s it going?” I asked limply, realizing that it would be ridiculous to try to keep up the pretence any longer.

“I’ve just put some of our bonus money to good use, as you can see.” He pulled back the towel covering the basket; it was filled with bottles of wine.

“We’re going to overfulfill the plan, though we haven’t yet landed any golden fish,”[12] he added, glancing at the girl with shamelessly transparent eyes. “Kalon karitsa (a nice-looking girl)!” he shouted in Abkhazian, leaning back in his seat and bursting into laughter. Obviously he had thoroughly sampled the wine before buying it. And now, suddenly remembering something, he started off on a new tangent:

“Oh, Miss, ask him to sing you the goatibex song. He sings it very well; they’re all singing that song and every time they sing it, they raise their glasses to the goatibex.”

Finally his companion pushed off from the pier and began to row. Spiro continued to horse around, pretending at one point that he was about to drown himself before our very eyes — we being too blind and foolish to appreciate this exceptional personality who was still in our midst.

“Don’t keep your readers in suspense!” he cried from a distance as the skiff began to fade into the sea’s wavering darkness.

The girl seemed to have taken it all very well and now, seeing the friendly smile on her face, I began to relax.

“What’s this goatibex he was talking about?” she asked after the boat had disappeared from sight.

“Oh, it’s just a new animal,” I replied casually.

“That’s funny, I wonder why I’ve never heard of it before.”

“You soon will,” I said.

“And you sing a song about this new animal?”

“You might say that I hum along.”

“Are they already singing it in Moscow?”

“Not yet, I don’t think.”

“It’s time we left,” came an unexpected voice from the rear.

We turned around. The two ladies had gotten up from the bench and were eyeing me with open hostility.

“We’re on the beach every day,” she said as if finishing a sentence. Then she meekly walked over to her companions and took them by the arm.

I bid all three of them a polite farewell and quickly walked off. I crossed the shore boulevard and made my way home along a deserted side street where I was unlikely to run into any of my friends. I didn’t want anyone or anything to detract from my present state of euphoria. And as I walked along, happily reflecting on her last words, it seemed perfectly natural to interpret them as an indication of her desire to see me again.

The next day at the office I was fairly bursting with joy at the thought of our future meeting. Not wanting to be caught in any indecent display of emotion, however, I decided to dampen my joy somewhat by spending the entire day answering letters from our readers.

At five o’clock sharp I locked the door to my office, left the building and caught the first bus headed for the beach. The bus was jammed with people, and the smell of sweat lay heavy in the air.

Upon arrival at the beach I was immediately enveloped in the soft, soothing music which came from the loudspeaker. Somehow the music always made it easier to undress, forming as it did a sort of fluid transition between land and sea.

Feeling somewhat excited, I started off down the beach, peering under tents and umbrellas along the way. All around me was a profusion of multicolored bathing suits, healthy-looking tans of every possible shade, and languid, complacent poses worthy of the ancient Greeks.

Suddenly I began to feel that I was in no great hurry to find her; for as long as I continued to search for her, I still had the right to observe and admire my surroundings. It even seemed to me that yesterday’s impressions had begun to wear off, apparently dulled by this carnival of seaside color. And knowing from experience that any overflow of feeling would be self-defeating, I was happy to note that for the moment at least, my feelings remained completely under control.

Whenever I met a girl I liked, I would foolishly overwhelm her with an avalanche of my most exalted feelings. As a result the girl would usually take fright or even be offended. Perhaps the very strength of my feeling made her wonder if she had not underestimated her own charms and somehow overlooked the wealth of resources buried within her. And if such were the case, her first priority, metaphorically speaking, was to reevaluate these resources, stake them off or, at any rate, not yield them up to the first bidder.

Whatever the reason, as soon as the avalanche came hurtling down on top of her, I would promptly be relegated to a second-string position. Eventually I would tire of this and become interested in some other girl. And even though I knew I should be more cautious and restrained, each time the process would repeat itself: the avalanche of feeling would come hurtling down of its own accord, and the girl would jump out from under it completely unscathed — or at most with a slightly rumpled hairdo.

Reflecting on all this, I could not help but rejoice at my present state of calm. By this time, however, I had walked the length of the beach, and now as it appeared that I was not going to find her, my mood began to deteriorate. I even tried walking along the water’s edge in order to have a closer look at those who were bathing, but she was not here either.

Noticing that the afternoon sun was beginning to fade, I slowly began to undress. As long as I was here on the beach, I might as well take a swim. Standing nearby was a photographer dressed in white shorts beneath which gleamed the bronze and sturdy legs of the seaside entrepreneur. At the moment, he was photographing a woman whose head had just emerged from the foam of an incoming wave.

“Just one more shot, Madame.”

And now the wave retreated, revealing the arms and torso of this sea-sprung Venus. She lay resting on her hands, which were firmly implanted in the sand.

“Okay…get set!”

He proceeded so slowly and painstakingly — in the manner of some old-time resident of St. Petersburg — that a group of young tourists sitting nearby suddenly burst out laughing.

The photographer got ready to take another picture, and once again the group got ready to laugh. The woman tried to simulate an expression of bliss, but could not seem to rid her face of its slightly preoccupied look. Apparently the enveloping foam was no more inspiring than soapsuds.

“Okay … here goes,” the photographer suddenly announced with a cautionary glance at the young people.

But they laughed all the same, and now even the photographer himself began to smile. It was a long, sunburnt smile, and one could tell that he sympathized with these young people. Yes, he understood that they were still young and foolish, but they too should understand that his profession was no more laughable than many other things in this world, and in general one should have the patience to live a little before passing judgment on such matters.

I went into the water, but instead of feeling refreshed, I felt only hunger and vexation. Suddenly I remembered that I’d forgotten to eat lunch — something which rarely happened with me.

Now even the beach was beginning to get on my nerves. All the flabby cardplayers with their thin, arthritic legs, the athletes with their tightly flexed but utterly superfluous muscles, the local Don Juans with their foolish and completely unwarranted arrogance, and finally the women with their supposedly irresistible charms displayed supposedly for the sake of a tan.

I quickly got dressed and left the beach. I took a bus into the center of town and from there made my way home on foot — hungry, tired and annoyed. But just as I was about to open the front door, I discovered that I had lost my key. I went through all my pockets, but the key was nowhere to be found. And now I realized that I was in for a streak of bad luck. It’s always that way with me. Things either go beautifully or else I can’t seem to do anything right. Apparently the key had fallen out of my pocket when I was dressing on the beach. Or at least so I hoped, since this was the only place where I could even begin to look for it.

Cursing my own bad luck and everything else under the sun, I walked to the nearest bus stop and once again set off for the beach. By now the bus was a lot less crowded; it was too late for anyone to be going swimming.

At one of the stops along the way the bus driver left the bus and returned five or ten minutes later with some hot meat pastries which could be seen gleaming faintly through a grease-soaked paper bag. Leisurely munching his pastries, he continued along for two more stops and then once again left the bus. Across from the bus stop was a beer stand, and here he ordered a chaser for his pastries. As the passengers grumbled in timid protest, I began studying the tall wooden building which stood next to the beer stand. It was a branch of the People’s Court, and it occurred to me that our driver might even take it into his head to wander inside and listen to some case. He probably would have had the gall to do so, beer mug and all, but for the time being he stood quietly sipping his beer.

I remained in my seat by the rear door and absentmindedly began kneading my ticket between my fingers. Finally, when my patience had come to an end, I flicked the ticket through the open door. But at that very moment a ticket inspector entered the bus through the forward door and began checking people’s tickets. I should have gotten off the bus at this point and started looking for my ticket, but I was too embarrassed to do so; I was sure everyone would think I was trying to get away.

Finally the inspector got to me. I tried to explain what had happened, but my story sounded ridiculous even to me. As for the inspector, he obviously was not going to let me think for a moment that he believed me.

I got down from the bus and accompanied by good-natured chuckles from the passengers seated closest to the door, I began combing the ground for my ticket. But the ticket was nowhere to be found. I refused to be easily discouraged, however, and now began calculating the probably trajectory of its flight. But in the spot where it should have landed there was nothing; undoubtedly it had been carried away by the wind. As I continued to search, the inspector stood by the door with a pained and weary look on his face — one of those looks I’ve never been able to stand. It was as much as to say: how can you expect to find what you haven’t lost?

The passengers must have decided that I had earned my deliverance for suddenly they all began to speak up in my defense, assuring the inspector that they had seen me throw the ticket away. Apparently feeling it best to yield to public opinion, he let the matter rest, merely giving me a short reprimand as he left the bus.

Our driver had finally finished his beer, and now as he slammed the forward door shut and briskly started up the motor, we all felt a wave of gratitude which, needless to say, we would not have felt, had he proceeded along his route as he was supposed to.

I sat back and tried to resign myself to my fate, knowing from experience that once I’d fallen upon a streak of bad luck, there was nothing I could do but try to get through it with as few losses as possible.

Finally we arrived at the beach. I got off the bus and made my way to the entrance booth, only to discover that I was three kopecks short of the ten kopecks admission fee. Apparently I’d forgotten to take any money with me when I left home that morning.

It has always bothered me that one has to pay to go to the beach — as if the sea were some creation of the city authorities.

“Come on through, you were already here,” said the lady ticket collector, noticing my hesitation. I looked up and saw an elderly woman with a kind, smiling face. How amazing that she had happened to remember me.

I walked onto the beach, so heartened by this bit of good luck that I felt a great burst of energy welling up inside me. Perhaps the wheel of fortune was beginning to turn. And suddenly I was sure that I would find my key, although up till now I had scarcely entertained any such hope. After all, from a strictly logical point of view my chances of finding it were almost nonexistent. For even if I had lost it on the beach, by now hundreds of people would have passed by the spot, and any one of them could have picked it up.

Be this as it may, not only did I find my key, but I actually caught sight of it from a distance. Yes, this small, almost luggage-size key lay flashing in the sand in the very spot where I had undressed to go swimming. No one had picked it up or even stamped it into the sand. As I picked up the key and was putting it in my pocket, I happened to glance in the direction of the sea, and now all of a sudden I was seized by a strange, indescribable sensation. I saw before me the warm, azure expanse of the sea, radiant in the setting sun; the laughing face of a girl who kept looking around as she made her way into the water; a boy sitting in a lifeboat with his strong, suntanned arms resting on the oars; and the shore itself, dotted with hundreds of people. And this whole scene was so softly and clearly illuminated and so full of peace and goodness that I froze with happiness.

This was not the sort of happiness which can be evoked by memory, but another, higher and extremely rare form of happiness which mere words are almost powerless to convey. It was the sort of happiness one feels in one’s blood and tastes on one’s lips.

It seemed to me at this moment as if all these people had come to their own beloved sea after a lifetime’s long and difficult journey, a journey from afar which had been made since time immemorial. And now at last, the people were happily reunited with their sea, and the sea with its people.

This extraordinary state of mind lasted for several minutes and then gradually began to fade. But even after the original intensity was gone, there remained a certain aftertaste — like the heady sensation which lingers on after our first gulp of early morning air.

I don’t know what brings on this feeling, but I have experienced it often — or perhaps not so terribly often, if I consider my life up to now. Usually it has come upon me when I’m alone — in the mountains, in a forest or by the seashore. And who knows, perhaps it is a presentiment of some other, more fully realized life which could or even will exist in the future.

Still reflecting on all this, I got onto the bus and made my way home — this time, I might add, forgetting to take any ticket at all.[13]

Later that evening I wandered around the city, hoping that I might run into her. I was terribly eager to see her again, although at the same time I was beginning to dread our next encounter. Several times that evening I felt an abrupt sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach — the same sensation one feels in an airplane when it hits an air pocket — but each time it turned out to be a false alarm; it was not she but someone else.

I had just wandered onto the small pier used by our local boats when suddenly I saw here. Somehow it had never occurred to me to look for her here; and yet here she was, standing in almost the very same spot where she had stood the evening before.

My first impulse was to run away, and it was only with great difficulty that I managed to resist the temptation. I started walking toward her along the well-lighted pier, but for some reason she didn’t see me. She seemed to be buried in thought, or perhaps she simply didn’t want to see me. In any case, I had just drawn level with her and was about to turn back, when suddenly our eyes met and she smiled — or more accurately, her face lit up with joy. And like some sudden gust of wind, her radiant smile swept away all the tension and fatigue I had accumulated in the course of the day.

It is not so often that people are genuinely happy to see us, or at least not so often as we would like. And even when a person is happy to see us, he usually tries to hide the fact, either because he’s afraid of appearing overly sentimental or else of offending the others present, at whose appearance he cannot rejoice. Thus it is that sometimes we’re not really sure whether a person is happy to see us or not.

An excursion boat suddenly pulled up to the pier, and as if by some previous agreement we got on board. I don’t remember what we talked about; I only remember that we stood leaning against the rail, gazing down at the water, just as the night before we had stood by the guardrail on the pier. Only now it seemed as if the pier had separated from the shore and was speeding into the open sea. I gazed down at her face and was strangely moved by the expression of tenderness which filtered through her tanned and slightly peeling skin.

Later on she wanted something to drink and we made our way along the dark and narrow passageway to the stern, where the snackbar was located.

We ordered some lemonade which turned out to be cold and bubbly like champagne. It had been a long time since I had drunk lemonade, and it suddenly occurred to me that no champagne had ever tasted as good as this lemonade.

And later on in life, when on several occasions I happened to drink champagne that was as flat and tasteless as weak lemonade, I would think back to this particular evening and reflect on the great if hardheaded wisdom of nature, which strives in everything for balance and equilibrium. For there is no such thing in this world as getting something for nothing; and if on occasion you are lucky enough to drink lemonade which reminds you of champagne, then sooner or later you will have to drink champagne which reminds you of lemonade.

Such is the sad but apparently inevitable logic of life. And perhaps even sadder than the logic itself is the fact that it is inevitable.