Death in Georgia

by Sara Magambetova (Russia)

Making a local connection Georgia

When my brother and I arrived in Vladikavkaz I didn’t see anything I expected to see. There were no mountains covered in golden mist, no gloomy and wise-looking cows, no talkative strangers. It was January, it was raining with snow, and the people we have spent the last three days with in a smelly train were scattering away, lonesome and frustrated, as if those days filled with sharing home-cooked chicken and smoking cheap cigarettes in a small observation car have never happened. As we were going higher and higher into the mountains in an old shuttle bus from Vladikavkaz to Tskhinvali the sun rose higher along with as. I was beginning to see the Georgia I have always imagined – blue and mysterious, a place for gods rather than people. But soon the landscapes changed – we were passing villages that were destroyed seven years ago during the war. People in military uniforms were stopping cars to see the passengers’ documents and that meant that we were approaching what was now called Southern Ossetia. On the evening of that day, my brother and I were sitting by the dinner table at our hosts’ house. Our host Vadim was flying around the table pouring wine and cracking jokes with his friends, who came to celebrate Christmas Eve. His lean body, thick mustache twisted upwards, his sneaky smile – his entire figure constantly moved around winking like a big eye. It seemed that the tiny house covered with cushions and endless jars of jam and canned vegetables did not know how to handle him. The sun, curious, like a wild animal, got down and stared at the windows. It took a look at the company of drunk singing men and then immediately disappeared. The night came without any warning. When the guests left I was helping Lyuba, Vadim’s wife, clean the kitchen. She was trying to get Vadim to sleep. He was drunk and could barely stand straight, but still, he was shouting, "Let me go!". "Enough drinking for today," Lyuba was saying. After a while, he finally got quiet. "You know, I grew up in Stavropol," said Lyuba. "Really?" I asked. "Yes. Vadim went to Stavropol to sell tomatoes many years ago, that’s how we met." "Yes," Vadim woke up from his nap on a couch. "Because there are no good tomatoes in Stavropol. They are all small and wrinkly like a chicken’s butt…" "No, Stavropol is beautiful, it is always so warm there. I want to go back to live there but who knows…" "There is nothing to do in your Stavropol." Vadim interrupted. "I guess," Lyuba said. "It is no good to move places at our age. But I would rather die there." The next day the entire village went to the Christmas mass. The male choir began singing – it was hard to believe that their dark and unearthly sounding songs were about a child being born. The shadows of people kneeled on the floor mixed with the shadows of long candles looked like figures of people pierced with dozens of spears – for a moment I thought that I was watching a war scene. In the early morning, my brother and I went home. Vadim and Lyuba’s house was surrounded by people. I could not see Lyuba but I could hear her crying. I went through the crowd inside the house and saw Vadim laying on the table where yesterday we were all eating khachapuri and drinking wine. He laid there stiffly with his hands put across his chest. His face looked tired and a little surprised. Later somebody told me that Vadim got drunk, and as he was climbing the three steps leading to his house he had a heart attack. The next day my brother and I left the village. We did not say goodbye to Lyuba. It seemed to me that somehow our arrival led to Vadim’s death. As if we were the death’s messengers that came and took him away from her. As I was staring outside the bus window, my brother whispered: "At least now she can go to Stavropol."