INTERVENTION (9 page)

Pyotr's laugh was uneasy. "Just the same, I'll ask."

But the woman in the store shook her head at his inquiry. "Upper Bzyb village? Oh, there's nothing for tourists there, and the road is nothing but a goat-track, suitable only for farm trucks. Better to go to the lovely resort at Lake Ritsa."

When Pyotr persisted she gave vague directions, all the while maintaining that the place was very hard to find and not worth the trip, and the people odd and unfriendly to boot. Pyotr thanked her and returned to the car wearing a grim expression. He handed his daughter her soda. "I have been told that the road to Upper Bzyb is impossible. We simply can't risk it, Tamara."

"Papa, don't worry. They won't let anything happen to us. They're expecting us."

"Expecting—! But I never wrote or telephoned—"

"Mamenka told them we'd come. And they told me."

"That's nonsense," he said, his voice trembling. What was he thinking of, coming here? It was madness! Perhaps he was unhinged by sorrow! Aloud, he said, "We'll turn around at once and go home."

He started up the car, slammed it into reverse gear, and stamped on the accelerator so abruptly that the engine died. He cursed under his breath and tried again and again to start it. Damn the thing! What was wrong with it? With
him!
Was he losing his mind?

"You've only forgotten your promise," the little girl said.

Aghast, Pyotr turned around. "Promise? What promise?"

Tamara stared at him without speaking. His gaze slid away from hers and after a moment he covered his face with his handkerchief. Vera! If only you had confided in me. I would have tried to understand. I'm a man of science, but not narrow-minded. It's just that one doesn't dream that members of one's own family can be—

"Papa, we must go," Tamara said. "It's a long way, and we'll have to drive slowly."

"The car won't start," he said dully.

"Yes it will. Try."

He did, and the Volga purred into instant life. "Yes, I see! This was also their doing? The old ones waiting for us in Verkhnyaya Bzyb?"

"No, you did it, Papa. But it's all right now." The little girl settled back in her seat, drinking the soda, and Pyotr Sakhvadze guided the car back onto the gorge road that led deep into the front ranges of the Caucasus.

***

The promise.

In the motor wreck a week earlier, as Vera lay dying in her husband's arms, she had said: "It's happened, Petya, just as little Tamara said. She told us not to go on this trip! Poor baby ... now what will become of her? I was such a fool! Why didn't I listen to them?...Why didn't I listen to her? Now I'll die, and she'll be alone and frightened ... Ah! Of course, that's the answer!"

"Hush," the distraught Pyotr told her. "You will not die. The ambulance is on its way—"

"I cannot see as far as Tamara," his wife interrupted him, "but I do know that this is the end for me. Petya, listen. You must promise me something."

"Anything! You know I'd do anything for you."

"A solemn promise. Come close, Petya. If you love me, you must do as I ask."

He cradled her head. The bystanders at the accident scene drew back in respect and she spoke so low that only he could hear. "You must take Tamara to my people—to the old ones in my ancestral town of Upper Bzyb—and allow them to rear her for at least four years, until she is nine years old. Then her mind will be turned toward peace, her soul secure. You may visit Tamara there as often as you wish, but you must not take her away during that time."

"Send our little girl away?" The physician was astounded. "Away from Sochi, where she has a beautiful home and every advantage?...And what relatives are you talking about? You told me that all of your people perished in the Great Patriotic War!"

"I lied to you, Petya, as I lied to myself." Vera's extraordinary dark eyes were growing dim; but as always they held Pyotr captive, bewitching him. He knew his wife's last request was outrageous. Send their delicate child prodigy to live with strangers, ignorant mountain peasants? Impossible!

Vera's whisper was labored. She held his hand tightly. "I know what you think. But Tamara must go so that she will not be alone during the critical years of mental formation. I ... I helped her as best I could. But I was consumed with guilt because I had turned my back on the heritage. You know ... that both Tamara and I are strange. Fey. You have read Vasiliev's books and laughed ... but he writes the truth, Petya. And there are those who will pervert the powers! Our great dream of a socialist paradise has been swallowed by ambitious and greedy men. I thought ... you and I together, when Tamara was older ... I was a fool. The old ones were right when they counseled watchful patience ... Take Tamara to them, to the village of Verkhnyaya Bzyb, deep in the Abkhazian mountains. They say they will care for her ..."

"Vera! Darling Vera, you must not excite yourself—"

"Promise me! Promise you will take Tamara to them!" Her voice broke, and her breath came in harsh gasps. "Promise!"

What could he do? "Of course. Yes, I promise."

She smiled with pallid lips and her eyes closed. Around them the gawkers murmured and the traffic roared, detouring around the accident on the busy Chernomorskoye Chaussée just south of Matsesta. In the distance the ambulance from Sochi was hooting, too late to be of any use. Vera's hands relaxed and her breathing stopped, but Pyotr seemed to hear her say:

The few years we have had together were good, Petya. And our daughter is a marvel. Some day she will be a hero of the people! Take care of her well when she returns from the village. Help her fulfill her great destiny.

Pyotr bent and kissed Vera's lips. He was calm as he looked up at the medical attendants with their equipment, introduced himself, and gave instructions for the body to be taken to the medical center for the last formalities. With his wife's death, the enchantment was broken. Dr. Sakhvadze put aside the morbid fancy that had taken hold of poor Vera and himself and resumed rational thinking. The promise? Mere comfort for a dying woman. Little Tamara would stay home where she belonged with her father, the distinguished head of the Sochi Institute of Mental Health. Later, after the child had received appropriate therapy to assuage grief, they would scatter Vera's ashes together over the calm sea. But for the present, it would be best if Tamara was spared ...

When Pyotr came at last to his home that evening, the old housekeeper greeted him with eyes that were red from weeping and a frightened, apologetic manner. "She forced me to do it, Comrade Doctor! It wasn't my fault. I couldn't help it!"

"What are you babbling about?" he barked. "You haven't broken the news to the child, have you? Not after I instructed you to leave it to me?"

"I didn't! I swear I said nothing, but somehow ... the little one knew! No sooner had I put the telephone down after your call, than she came into the room weeping. She said, 'I know what has happened, Mamushka. My mother is dead. I told her not to go on the trip. Now I will have to go away.'"

"Idiot!" shouted the doctor. "She must have overheard something!"

"I swear! I swear not! Her knowledge was uncanny. Terrible! After an hour or so she became very calm and remained so for the rest of the day. But before going to bed tonight she—she forced me to do it! You must believe me!" Burying her face in her apron, the housekeeper rushed away.

Pyotr Sakhvadze went to his daughter's room, where he found her sleeping peacefully. At the foot of Tamara's bed were two large valises, packed and ready to go. Her plush bear, Misha, sat on top of them.

***

The Lake Ritsa Road followed the Bzyb River gorge into the low range called the Bzybskiy Khrebet, a humid wilderness thick with hanging vines and ferns and misted by waterfalls. At one place, Tamara pointed off into the forest and said, "In there is a cave. People lived there and dreamed when the ice came." Again, as they passed some ruins: "Here a prince of the old ones had his fortress. He guarded the way against soul-enemies more than a thousand years ago, but the small minds overcame him and the old ones were scattered far and wide." And when they arrived at a small lake, glowing azure even under a suddenly cloudy sky: "The lake is that color because its bottom is made of a precious blue stone. Long ago the old ones dug up the stone from the hills around the lake and made jewelry from it. But now all that's left is underwater, where people can't get at it."

"How does she know this?" muttered Pyotr. "She is only five and she has never been in this region. God help me—it's enough to make one take Vasiliev's mentalist nonsense seriously!"

Up beyond the power station the paved route continued directly to Lake Ritsa via the Gega River gorge; but the storekeeper had told Pyotr to be on the lookout for an obscure side road just beyond the big bridge, one that angled off eastward, following the main channel of the Bzyb. He slowed the car to a snail's pace and vainly scanned the dense woods. Finally he pulled off onto the exiguous verge and said to Tamara:

"You see? There's nothing here at all. No road to your fairy-tale village. I was told that the turning was here, but there's no trace of it. We'll have to go back."

She sat holding Misha the plush bear, and she was smiling for the first time since Vera's death. "I love it here, Papa! They're telling us, 'Welcome!' They say to go on just a bit more. Please."

He didn't want to, but he did. And the featureless wall of green parted to reveal a double-rut track all clogged and overhung with ferns and sedges and ground-ivy. There was no signpost, no milestone, no indication that the way was anything more than a disused logging road.

"That can't be it," Pyotr exclaimed. "If we go in there, we'll rip the bottom right out of the car!"

Tamara laughed. "No we won't. Not if we go slow." She clambered into the front seat. "I want to be here with you where I can see everything—and so does Misha. Let's go!"

"Fasten your seat belt," the doctor sighed.

Shifting into the lowest gear, Pyotr turned off. The wilderness engulfed them, and for the next two hours they bounced and crawled through a cloud-forest of dripping beeches and tall conifers, testing the suspension of the Volga sedan to the utmost. The track traversed mountain bogs on a narrow surface of rotting puncheons and spanned brawling streams on log bridges that rumbled ominously as the car inched across. Then they came to a section of the road that was hewn from living rock and snaked up the gorge at horrific gradients. Pyotr drove with sweat pouring down the back of his neck while Tamara, delighted with the spectacular view, peered out of her window at the foaming rapids of the Bzyb below. After they had gone more than thirty-five kilometers the canyon narrowed so greatly that Pyotr despaired. There could not possibly be human habitation in such a desolate place! Perhaps they had missed a turning somewhere back in the mist-blanketed woods.

"Just five minutes more," he warned his daughter. "If we don't find signs of life in another kilometer or so, we're giving up."

But suddenly they began to ascend a series of switchbacks leading out of the gorge. At the top the landscape opened miraculously to a verdant plateau girt with forested uplands that soared in the east to snowy Mount Pshysh, thirty-eight hundred meters high, source of the turbulent Bzyb. The track improved, winding through alpine meadows down into a deep valley guarded by stands of black Caucasian pine. Stone walls now marked the boundaries of small cultivated fields, and in the pastures were flocks of goats and sheep. The track dead-ended in a cluster of white-painted buildings sheltered by enormous old oak trees. Twenty or thirty adults stood waiting in a tight group as Pyotr drove the last half kilometer into Verkhnyaya Bzyb and braked to a stop in a cloud of dust.

In this place the sun shone and the air had an invigorating sparkle. Weak with fatigue and tension, Pyotr sat unable to move. A tall stately figure detached itself from the gathering of villagers and approached the sedan. It was a very old man with a princely bearing, dressed in the festive regalia of the Abkhazian hills: black karakul hat, black Cossack-style coat, breeches, polished boots, a white neck-scarf, and a silver-trimmed belt with a long knife carried in an ornamented silver scabbard with blue stones. His smiling face was creased with countless wrinkles. He had a white mustache and black brows above deep-set, piercing eyes. Eyes like Vera's.

"Welcome," the elder said. "I am Seliac Eshba, the great-great-grandfather of your late wife. She left us under sad circumstances. But her marriage to you was happy and fruitful, and I perceive that you, Pyotr Sergeyevich Sakhvadze, also share the blood and soul of the old ones—even though you are unaware of it. This gives us a double cause to rejoice in your coming."

Pyotr, craning out the car window at the old man, managed to mumble some response to the greeting. He unsnapped his seat belt and Tamara's and opened the car door. Seliac Eshba held it with courtesy, then started around to Tamara's side; but the little girl had already opened her door and bounded out, still keeping a tight grip on Misha the bear. At that same moment more than a dozen young children carrying bouquets of late-summer flowers dashed out from behind the crowd of adults calling Tamara's name.

She ran to meet them, shouting gleefully. "Nadya! Zurab! Ksenia! It's me! I'm finally here! Hello, Akaky—what pretty flowers. I'm so hungry I could almost eat them! But first, take me to the little house before I burst!" Giggling and chattering, the children led Tamara away.

Pyotr, white-faced, said to Seliac, "She knows their names! Holy Mother, she knows their names."

"Your daughter is very special," Seliac said. "We will care for her like a precious jewel. Be of good heart, grandson. I'll tell you everything you must know about us in due time. But first let me take you to a place where you can refresh yourself after your long drive. Then we invite you to join us for the special meal that we have prepared in your honor—and Tamara's."

***

It was not until the middle of the afternoon that the last toast was raised by Great-Great-Grandfather Seliac, the tamadar.

"To the soul—which now must pass from the old ones to the young!"