The Searcher (24 page)

“I'm close. We'll be safe here.”

Then Natela took a step toward him and hugged him, holding him close, and he couldn't tell whether she was taking succor or giving it. Perhaps it was just the closing of the deal between them. In any event, he didn't mind. He felt her cheek against his, smelled that already familiar smell of perfume and fresh smoke, and closed his eyes for a moment.

“It'll be OK.”

She pulled away, took another drag, and smiled.

“How you find these people?”

“This is how I make friends. I force my way into people's lives.”

The smile stayed.

“Come on,” he said. “It's dinner. I need your help.”

“I finish this.”

“How many packs you bring? How long can we last up here?”

T
hey were seven for the supra, three on each side of the kitchen table and Vano at the head. In front of him lay a curled, polished ram's horn; everyone else had a small glass, which Eka and Irodi filled from two jugs of dark white wine, but these remained untouched until Vano, without his cap and wearing a fresh checked shirt, rose and made his speech, looking deliberately from face to face as he spoke and lending his voice a rolling, melodic quality that suggested he knew precisely what he was going to say and had said it many times before. Hammer was struck by his manner, which was welcoming but stern and seemed to suggest that, while their coming together might be pleasant, the tradition they now embodied was grave, and of the greatest significance. Next to him Natela had bowed her head a little, as one might at the dispensing of a sacrament, while Koba, in the opposite corner and less controllable than Hammer would have liked, sat up straight and crossed his arms over his belly. The only light in the room came from three candles on the table, and from the fire burning quietly in the hearth.

All this Hammer took in without the benefit of knowing what was being said. Vano talked for a long time, perhaps two minutes, and then with a nod signaled that the priest might translate. This he did in summary, with one eye on Vano, who was clearly keen to begin the feast. It was an honor to have guests in their home; an opportunity to discharge the ancient Georgian obligation of hospitality, and to make new friends in the process; the food they were about to eat and the wine they would drink were a blessing from God and part of the great bounty of their dear country. Hammer thanked the priest and went to raise his glass.

But the toast had not yet come. Vano checked him with a look and resumed, taking up the horn and holding it out for Eka to fill from a jug. At his words everyone stood, and the priest just had time to tell Hammer that they were drinking to the heroic dead of Diklo before Vano shouted “Gaumarjos!” and they all tossed back their first tumbler of wine. Hammer kept his elbow high, and watched with a certain awe as Vano, the chieftain, drained the horn.

The taste was familiar by now, but this was sharper than the stuff he'd had last night, and though it brought a pleasant flush of warmth he was grateful that before dinner he'd persuaded Eka, who had clearly thought him crazy, to give him a glass of sheep's milk. Filthy stuff, which was not quite cool and tasted of hay and animal, but he had got it down with a smile and could feel it now, doing its work, softening the blow a little.

Then they sat, and they ate. Hammer tried to take as much bread and potato as he decently could to soak up the alcohol that was to come. He was a pretty good drinker, and for his weight no slouch, but these people were likely to be in a different class. They had had a lifetime of training.

“Meat, Isaac,” shouted Koba from the other end of the table. “Eat meat and you will not be drunk, yes?”

Hammer had heard this theory of Koba's before, and trusted it as little as he trusted his other one, that if you ate a little after each toast you would have no hangover. The problem came when you ate like an American, one big dish of food all at once. Then you would suffer the next day.

Conversation was slow. Hammer didn't know whether it was supposed to be, or whether people were holding back because it would be rude to speak Georgian and daunting to speak anything else. Unable to leave a silence unfilled, he filled it.

“Does every village have dead heroes, Father?” he said, smiling across the table.

The priest chewed deliberately before he spoke. “All Georgia toasts its dead, but in the towns it is . . . it is not so real, perhaps. Here it is real, and every village in the mountains. . . . ” He stopped to let his hosts know what he was talking about, and to ask Vano's consent to continue—which was given with a nod.

“Over the ridge here, into Russia, is barren country. Not like this. It is all stone and ice. The people who live there are hard, like their world. They once had a leader, Shamil, who fought the Russians when they first came to this part of the world.” At the mention of his name Vano crossed his arms, and seemed to grow more rigid still. “He fought them bravely, viciously, but he fought the Georgians, too. They were all Christians, he saw no difference.

“One day, two hundred years ago, Shamil's men crossed the border and attacked the fortress here. Everyone from the village was inside. Sixteen men held out for eighteen days, but not for longer. All were killed. Men and women and children. One man killed his wife and sister so that they would not be taken. They requested it.”

“Gutiso,” said Vano, with a deep nod of respect.

“That is the man,” said the priest.

Hammer had no adequate response. Koba, sitting next to the priest, let out a little puff of air that might have expressed consternation or derision.

“It's not so long ago, I guess,” said Hammer at last.

“For these people it is yesterday,” said the priest.

“It is terrible story,” said Koba, as he speared a piece of meat and put it in his mouth.

The next toast was to family, the great bond of life without which none of them would have been present. This prompted some questioning of the three visitors. When it came to Hammer, his stock answer seemed inadequate; this was not a place to hold back the truth. So he told them that he had been in love once, and that it had ended badly, and that he had never found love again. The words were strange to him, but there was comfort in hearing them said. Only Eka responded, speaking directly to him.

“She says that you have a good heart,” said the priest, “and that a good heart will find its reward in the world.”

“Thank you,” said Hammer, strangely affected by the wine, and the soft light, and the quiet, and by the simplicity of Eka's words, which she spoke with warmth and as fact. He expected the silence that followed to be broken by Koba, but even he seemed briefly under the spell of the feast.

Glass after glass was filled; glass after glass knocked back. After family came friends, and then Georgia, and children, and after that a suite of
others, all proposed by Vano with great weight and eloquence, among them a solemn plea for the health of their guest's missing friend, whose misfortune had brought them all together.

When Vano wasn't making toasts he said little, watched his guests, and somehow managed, despite the quantities of wine they had all now drunk, to remain dignified and upright, prompting Hammer, whose thoughts were sliding about, and whose tongue was beginning to slip, to wonder whether there was perhaps some magic trick to the horn—a tube attached to the leg of the chair and down into the ground. His own battle was lost, in any case. The alcohol had won, and he was glad of it. No; delighted, comfortable, unexpectedly happy. Everything glowed; everybody glowed. What a good, simple thing it sometimes was to be human, and what a talent these people had for it. How strange to find something that felt like home in the furthest corner of the world.

And he was fairly sure, after all, that even Vano was looking a little less stern, a shade more approachable. When everyone laughed, as they often did, the corners of his mouth would crease, and he would allow himself a gentle nod. The rest of the table had settled happily. Irodi, who had said only a dozen words all day, revealed himself as a wry storyteller, full of tales of the cunning of the Chechens, the ruthlessness of the Dagestanis, and the stupidity of tourists. Natela and the priest translated what they could and summarized the rest. Koba—his arms still crossed, but now in what appeared to be contentment—ate his fill and between toasts helped himself to wine from the jug.

Just as Hammer thought they must have left no toasts unsaid, Vano touched him on the arm and with some words of Georgian and a gracious gesture invited him to make one of his own. This was a great honor, he knew, and the hush that came over the table confirmed it. Natela put an encouraging hand on his arm and though he welcomed it, it didn't help. Ideas floated about just beyond his grasp. No word would come. The one thought in his head was that he couldn't bear to fail his hosts, or Natela; and behind that there lay a dim sense that he wasn't as good in these situations as he had once been, and had lost the art of being drunk. He looked around at the faces waiting for him, and then remembered where he was.

“It's a long time since I was in the mountains. I make it thirty years. I live in a city, and I've always lived in cities. But my house is next to a park, a very beautiful park, and every day I'm in it. Every day. It's where I go to find peace, because in London there's a lot of noise.”

He paused to allow the priest to translate.

“So it's this quiet place surrounded by cars and buildings and millions of people, all running around in a frenzy all the time. But the park needs the city. Without it, it's not a park, and not as beautiful, I always thought. It's just a piece of country, like anywhere else.”

The priest gave him a slightly wondering look, as if he wasn't sure that what he was saying conformed to etiquette, but relayed Hammer's words just the same.

“But the beauty I find here? Boy. This is some park you have. All of Georgia seems blessed, but I think God saved his best work for you. Really. I don't know what it's like when you live here, but for me, someone who's always running, running all over, doing a lot, achieving not so much, for me coming here, it's like the park. Everything is that much more lovely because it's set inside a world that's loud, and busy, and violent sometimes. You have nasty things going on just over your border, some terrible fighting between some pretty ugly people, but here, it's paradise. I don't mean it's easy, but it's perfect. It's how it's meant to be. Sorry, Father.”

He let the priest catch up.

“Listen. I'm talking too much. I talk too much. That may be why I feel so comfortable here. Let me get to the point. My toast is to the mountains. They're what keep you apart. They're what keep you safe. Long may they stand to protect you and your people.”

He raised his glass, and when the priest was done, said in the steadiest voice he could manage, “To the mountains. Gaumarjos!” and downed the wine. Then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he set his glass on the table uncertainly, collected his swaying thoughts, and looked to Vano for his judgment.

Still holding the sheep's horn in one hand, Vano fixed him with a clear and level eye, leaned forward to grip his arm, and said something in Georgian, in great earnest. Across the table Eka beamed.

“He says you are Tushetian now,” said the priest, and Hammer felt a great wave of pride go through him. He thanked Vano, who with a deep nod sat back in his chair.

Natela leaned in confidentially. “This means you must stay, forever.”

“I can think of worse things,” he said.

 • • • 

W
hat no one had told him, though, was how a newly ennobled Tushetian might leave a supra. It seemed wrong just to stand up and retire, since that would divide the group, and was surely only done on Vano's say-so. But really, any more wine and he would need to be carried, and some distant voice told him that his new reputation might not survive that. It was all he could do not to slump onto the table. God, these people could drink. With the exception of the priest, who had his head propped heavily on his hand, they all looked, if not quite unaffected, then at least in control. Even Natela looked as if she might go on all night. He was just considering going to the bathroom and not returning when he became aware of Koba's voice, which was louder than it had been and growing strident.

Leaning forward in his chair, Koba wore that sneering, contemptuous look that seemed to come on him when he was considering the claims of people he deemed inferior; he was jabbing a thick finger at Irodi opposite, who was listening with his head on one side, calm enough but clearly irritated. The priest's tired face registered concern. Hammer waited a moment, expecting Vano to intervene, but he just sat and observed, a slight frown on his face. Natela had stiffened in her seat.

“Koba,” said Hammer, doing his best to compose himself. “I don't think our friends want an argument.”

Koba finished his point, jabbed the finger one last time, and sat back in his chair, like a man who has said his piece. Irodi simply glared at him, his eyes narrowed under heavy lids.

“Koba, let's you and I have a smoke,” said Hammer, pushing his chair back and preparing for the challenge of standing.

“Isaac, you know, maybe this is not issue for you,” said Koba, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes nevertheless.

“You're upsetting these good people. I brought us here, so it is my issue. Now, let's get some air.”

But Koba wasn't going anywhere. Irodi continued to stare at him, with hostile indifference, and Koba, when he wasn't engaging with Hammer, stared back.

“This not your country, Isaac.” His voice had a sharp quality that Hammer hadn't heard before. “You like our mountains, yes, you like our women, I think, but tomorrow or day after you go home and be here no more. You see good things. I live here. I see bad. These people, you love so much, they live like old days, ya? House of wood, and sheep, and no water, no phone. No light.” He raised his hands and looked up at the ceiling. “Where are lights? We sit in dark. This place, is like Georgia. We all sit in dark. We go nowhere.”

“Koba. We're leaving.” Hammer stood, pushing himself up and holding on to the table for balance.

“All people is going. This place, ten years, will be no people here. Is dying. But is OK. Georgia is free. These motherfuckers are free. They have no light. No future. But is free. How good is this, Isaac? You still like this place?”

Hammer squeezed past Natela's chair and walked round the table to Koba's seat, concentrating on every step.

Koba looked up at him and laughed an ugly, leering laugh.