Solo (26 page)

Everyone was staring expectantly at Khatuna. She said to Irakli,

‘Get me out of here.’

He opened his eyes and looked at her too.

‘We have to leave,’ she said.

The taxi rattled over the cobbles, and Khatuna was shouting.

‘Are these the people you spend your time with? Infected losers floating in their own shit? Stealing whatever they have? It’s disgusting that you’re around those people.’

‘Calm down, for God’s sake. They’re just ordinary people, like you and me.’

He sat forward in his seat, staring into the dim horizon of the car’s headlights. The two men in front were silent. A few nightclubs were still running, but most of the city was shut up. Khatuna said,

‘Our family was rich! We had everything taken away, we were humiliated, Irakli, do you remember that? – and now you’re wallowing in poverty and dirt as if you loved it. I won’t let you. I’m going to set us right again.’

In the distance Irakli saw a white horse lying by the side of the road, its head erect, watching the traffic. He squinted through the night: it was a glorious, miraculous beast, its coat as bright as cocaine, its mane billowing in the breeze. Then, as the car drew close, Irakli realised it was
no horse, just a man in white overalls lying on his back by the side of the road, one knee crooked, which had made the head.

They arrived home.

Inside, their mother was asleep in an armchair. A candle was burning but the lights and television were all on, for the power had come back since she passed out. The room smelt bad.

‘Do you want anything to drink?’ asked Irakli, putting water on the stove.

‘No.’

Khatuna switched off the television and stood looking at her mother. She had become painfully thin, and her face had gone slack.

Irakli brought a bowl of steaming water, took his Nescafé sachet from his pocket, and stirred it in.

‘Did you see what I did?’ He pointed to the ceiling, where he had hung a string of plastic ivy. ‘Doesn’t the room look better?’

She sat down on the mattress, her hands between her thighs for warmth. She said more calmly,

‘I worry about you. That’s why I get worked up.’

‘Mother is the one you should be worried about.’

Irakli sipped his coffee in silence. Khatuna looked out of the window at the web of washing lines criss-crossing the courtyard, where shirts waved dimly in the night. Two pigeons were nestled close on the windowsill. She said,

‘You know something strange about Moscow? The pigeons are twice the size of ours. The sparrows too. They’re fat like you can’t believe.’

There was no reply, and she turned away from the window. He seemed so alone on the sofa, so unprotected. She got up and put her arms around him, and held him for a long time.

T
HE YEAR WAS CHANGING
to the next millennium, and Kakha organised a party in his new house.

Khatuna arrived early. A DJ was testing the sound in the bar, and disco lights were laid out on the floor. Security guards searched the bags of the women who had been hired for the evening.

Kakha’s cousin, Vakhtang, was already dressed up, his hair slicked back, head-jerking to every ten-second burst of music coming from the sound check. He was short, and had enormous muscles. He said to Khatuna,

‘Have you seen the size of those speakers? This party is going to make some
noise
!’

And he raised his hands above his head and twisted his face into a silent scream of dance-floor ecstasy.

Then he remembered something serious. He said,

‘There’s no sauna in this house. I thought you would have put one in.’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘That was never in the plan.’

‘Oh.’ He looked crestfallen. ‘When you have as much money as Kakha your house should have a sauna.’

He did some heavy hip-hop moves which ended with a mock punch to Khatuna’s jaw. He asked,

‘So are you his girlfriend now?’

‘No.’

‘But you
do
—’

He simulated sex with his fingers.

Khatuna did not respond. Vakhtang pursued it.

‘He really likes you, right?’

‘I guess.’

Vakhtang said solemnly,

‘You should get together with him. It would be an achievement for you.’

Khatuna went up to Kakha’s room. He had just arrived back from a trip to London, and was unpacking in his bedroom. He smelt of perfume, and his hair was wet. A big Rottweiler sat in the corner, eyeing Khatuna with a low growl.

‘Don’t worry,’ Kakha said. ‘He’ll get used to you.’

He stroked the dog’s head reassuringly.

‘It’s such a pleasure, having him around. I’ve got fifteen of them, but this one stood out from all the rest. You should see him run.’

She sat on the bed. She was touched by how neatly he had folded his clothes. On the wall he had mounted an icon of Mary, and a football in a glass case. Above the bed were two modern paintings of medicine cabinets and skulls.

‘Was it nice?’ she asked, lying back and looking up at the seashell chandelier. ‘In England?’

‘They love meeting me,’ he said. ‘It’s very exciting for them. They’re all so bored in that country.’

He gave her a Gucci bag, full of tissue paper.

‘I got this for you.’

She took it out, a blue dress with a low-cut bodice and an extravagant crêpe skirt.

‘These shoes go with it,’ he said, handing her another bag. ‘I thought you could wear them for the party.’

She took them into the bathroom. The air was steamy, and the gold Jacuzzi still pebble-glassed with water. There were mirrors on the ceiling and all four walls, and as she changed there were countless other Khatunas putting on Gucci dresses and shoes. She went back out into the bedroom.

‘Fantastic,’ said Kakha.

She kissed him on the cheek.

She said,

‘Mostly I influence other people: my friends always told me I was a
big influence on them. But you have influenced me. You’ve shown me what it is to be ambitious.’

She sat back on the bed.

‘All this time you’ve been away, I see other men and they’re nothing more than a cupboard or a chair.’

He looked at her for a while. He said,

‘You have to understand: my life is different. Tonight my house is full of people I can’t trust, and any of them could kill me. That’s how it is.’

She was drinking Nemiroff from the bottle by his bed.

‘I know you’re brave,’ she said.

‘No. The reason I’m still alive is because I’m constantly afraid. I’m afraid of everyone: I’m afraid of you. I analyse everything.
Why did she
come half an hour early? Why did he stop to buy milk?
’

He took the bottle from her and swigged himself.

‘The moment I stop being afraid, it’s over.’

He chose a suit from the closet and laid it on the bed.

‘You haven’t been exposed to this. If you get involved with me I won’t be able to shield you any more. You’ll need protection, surveillance, all kinds of inconvenience. Not every young woman wants that.’

His phone was ringing, but he ignored it. He said,

‘I can’t stop thinking about you, Khatuna. I’ve not stopped thinking about you all the time I’ve been away. I want to have you near me. But it would mean a lot of changes for you.’

He was pacing in the room. The party music had started downstairs, and a regular beat came through the floor. Through the window, laser lights reached towards the stars, and the illuminated statue of the Mother of Georgia was like a smudge in the night.

‘Anyone can see how much you love your brother, and that would become a weak spot for me. People could put pressure on you by threatening him. We might need to have him watched. Do you see?’

She suddenly felt sick.

‘He would never accept it,’ she said.

Khatuna was breathing deeply, and she was aware of a sweet and reassuring smell, like crude oil.

Then there was a knock at the door, and the dog stiffened.

‘Who is it?’ asked Kakha.

‘It’s me,’ came the voice. ‘Nata.’

Kakha opened the door to his daughter, and commotion flooded in from downstairs. Khatuna found it strange to see someone like Natalia Sabadze standing there, whom she had seen so many times on TV. She was a famous model, and she had recently launched a pop album called
Nata 2000
that was better than anyone expected. You could see her in the music videos that played in all the bars, singing her songs in the back of limousines, cute and self-absorbed, kissing lollipops and balloons behind the security of machine guns.

In reality she was not so good looking.

Natalia hesitated only for the briefest moment when she saw Khatuna sitting on the bed. She looked at the Gucci bag.

‘This is who you were talking about?’

He nodded. Natalia said stiffly to Khatuna,

‘Pleased to meet you.’

Natalia was in charge of the party, and she began to discuss arrangements with her father. She whispered so Khatuna could not hear, and as the conversation went on, she retreated into the hallway. Kakha closed the door behind them, and in the last crack Khatuna caught sight of the enormous steel heel of Natalia’s leather boots.

Khatuna lay back in her blue dress. She let her eyelids drop, and looked at the chandelier through the thick pulp of her lashes. She thought of a bunch of roses she had seen that afternoon discarded in a trash bin.

She thought of her brother with his books and poetry. She thought of him dead, and how it would be impossible to bear.

She could hear the noise swelling downstairs, as guests arrived and the racket of conversation overtook the music. She pictured the glamorous people who might be coming, but she did not wish to leave Kakha’s bed.

He came back in and put on his jacket.

‘Come on,’ he said.

He looked at her, lying there. She was still looking up at the ceiling. She said sadly,

‘In ten years’ time I’ll be an old woman.’

‘You will never be old,’ he said.

He leaned over the bed and kissed her: it was the first time. He lifted her up, and she felt as if a winged horse were in her groin. They walked together down the stairs, the dog running ahead, and the house had filled with people. There was a queue at the main entrance, where guns were checked. A waiter gave them champagne.

Then Kakha was enthronged, and Khatuna left him.

She wandered around the party, marvelling at the decorations: beautiful dancers, champagne fountains and rotating video walls showing clips of Kakha’s life. She saw politicians, beauty queens and famous assassins. She watched the musicians for a while – a turbofolk band that had been flown in from Serbia. She saw Vakhtang, who said to her,

‘Wow, Khatuna, you look like a model.’

She took him in her arms and danced against his bulk. In her heels she was much taller than he. She began to sing into his ear the sugary love lyrics of a Russian song. Vakhtang remained stiff.

‘Have you seen the women they’ve got here tonight?’ he said.

‘They look expensive.’

Vakhtang sniggered.

‘On the house, sister.’

His face was thickset, his mouth filled with gold teeth. He pointed with his eyes.

‘I’m going to have me that one over there. Have you seen the tits she’s got?’

He left her. Khatuna sidled through the perfume and clamour, looking for a place to be alone. In the billiard room she found an empty armchair, and she sat down and lit a Trussardi. There were men around her, arguing. A man in dark glasses said,

‘There are colleagues in this room who have invested good money in oil pipelines and they are losing their investments because the government wishes to interfere where it has no business to interfere.’

‘But Mr Maisaia has not invested anything! He set up a fictitious company overnight and he stole the money intended for that pipeline! He may be my friend: but friendship is friendship and activity is activity!’

‘Mr Kenchosvili, may I ask you to cast a veil of discretion over your lips when you speak of these things in public. There are some things that are known but not said.’

When she finished her cigarette, Khatuna got up and wandered away. She had Kakha’s kiss still on her lips, and her new dress like angel hands around her legs. People were dancing together: the party was whirlpooling, it was rearing up against the high walls, and she wanted to ride on top of it. Waiters brought in bowls of cocaine, and Khatuna took a couple of lines. She saw a pale man in foreign clothes who was taking discreet photographs of the models. She saw TV personalities and businessmen on the dance floor. The Serbian turbofolk singer sang Turkish tunes while a rapper in mirrored glasses cut in with Russian and English rhymes.
Motherfuckin’ Tbilisi
. A big gangster called the Raven walked in with his girlfriend, a porn star.

Khatuna went to the bathroom. An open toilet door was banging noisily where Natalia Sabadze was having sex with a male model. Khatuna checked herself in the mirror. She was amazed by herself. She went into a cubicle and locked herself in. She leaned back against the dim wall, closed her eyes and gave way to the luxurious feeling that she was many metres tall, and so was everyone around her.

She returned to the party, which extended outside and round the pool, for the night was not cold. She made deliberate sine waves through the crush, heading for the door, wanting to see the moon – and she almost collided with the foreign man who had been taking photographs. He stepped back to let her pass, and she said in English,

‘Such a gentleman.’

He grinned and walked with her out into the darkness. They stood looking at the moon, blurred through the clouds. She said,

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I met Kakha Sabadze a few times in New York and he asked me to
pay him a visit. I’m in construction, he likes buildings. You know him?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s a classy guy. Very smart. I understand he’s big in these parts.’

‘He used to be a famous footballer.’

Faces were blue in the light of the swimming pool. Out here the music was lighter.

‘Amazing party,’ said the American.