7
SO, YOU’D LIKE TO BUY A WINERY?
Tbilisi, Georgia
July, 1999
10.30 am, day one in Tbilisi, found us waiting in the hotel lobby after almost an hour, wondering why George was late.
‘Johnny’s pacing,’ Kevin wrote in the diary he would keep throughout the trip. We agreed that we didn’t feel too bad, given jet lag and our small amount of sleep, but I was tired enough not to take it well when George didn’t turn up as promised. It didn’t seem a great omen, although actually, we would soon discover that George generally had a pretty elastic take on the concept of punctuality.
I had the large bag of equipment we would need in the cellar to audit and check the wine. Kevin had a backpack with a camera and his notepad, along with whatever else Kevin carried around. The hotel foyer? Overwhelmingly burgundy with light brown wooden highlights. We could have been in Dallas, or Brussels, or a hundred other cities.
Except for the security screen between us and Telavi Street. We watched as Nino and another young man finally appeared, stalking through the front door. They both, as a reflex, reached to their belts and pulled handguns away from where they were tucked into their waists. We stared as they gave the guns to the bored-looking officer next to the security screen, along with car keys, and then wandered through the metal detector. I also noticed that the security people kept a very close eye on the man behind Nino, the guards more vigilant than usual.
‘You know,’ Kevin said, deadpan, ‘if we were to run screaming to the airport and catch the first flight out of here, now would be the time.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I replied. ‘If they were going to shoot us, they could have done it last night on the way in from the airport. Where’s your sense of adventure?’
Nino was approaching us, his hand outstretched. Something strange was going on with his face but then I realised the hard man of last night was smiling.
‘You sleep good?’ he asked in his thick accent. ‘You ready for winery?’
The man with him looked to be in his thirties. The standard leather jacket, this time in brown. He had a buzz cut hairstyle and the beginnings of a beard, more a multi-day unshaven growth on his chin. He was shorter than both of us but had a level gaze.
‘This is Pyotr,’ said Nino. ‘He is helpful.’
We shook hands with Pyotr, who had a firm grip without trying to crunch our hands. In very passable English, he said he was pleased to meet us. He would prove to be very helpful.
‘We can go,’ Nino said. ‘George is waiting.’
Kevin and I passed security, followed by Nino and Pyotr. Without a word, Nino was handed back his gun by the security guard, and Pyotr received his. It was amazing to us, as though they had handed over umbrellas and then retrieved them on leaving. Having said that, I noticed that the guards remained on high alert as Pyotr nonchalantly shoved the pistol back into his belt and headed out to the street where Nino’s big black Mercedes with the tinted windows was parked right at the doorway of our hotel.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Kevin quietly. ‘Of course. The mafia staff car.’
‘You are allowed to park on a footpath?’ I asked Nino.
He snorted and said, ‘Parking restrictions are for aboriginals.’ Kevin and I stared at one another as we got into the back seat. We didn’t realise it at the time, but ‘aboriginals’ was Nino-speak for anybody who wasn’t a high roller as he saw himself to be. I guess you’d call it his word for ‘locals’ or everyday people. It jarred every time, but he used it more than once during our stay. Approaching a red light, he would veer onto the wrong side of the road and roar straight through, often at a worryingly high speed. ‘Red lights are for aboriginals,’ he would proclaim, eye in the rear-vision mirror and grinning. Maybe he was right. The police never once lifted a finger as he lorded his way around Tbilisi.
What made all this even more terrifying is that Tbilisi is built around a gorge, carved by nature into the mountains, the river surging through the heart of the city. There are places where Tbilisi’s streets are more like those of San Francisco, extremely steep and narrow. Not normally a place to rev through the gears, trying to get from nought to way too fast in a few seconds, you would have thought.
Nino disagreed. Instead, the car’s engine screamed as we flew through the streets, speeding to the Savane Number One Winery for the first time. Pyotr sat silently in the front passenger seat as Nino drove, while Kevin and I tried to take in the view of the river as we headed through the city. The buildings were almost universally run-down but hinted at former grandeur. They were almost colonial in architectural style, with arches at ground level, shuttered windows, and huge balconies above, especially near the river.
We passed what appeared to be an opera house that had seen better days and several large buildings that in a former life might have been banks. Nino wove too fast between roadworks, which seemed to be happening everywhere or needed to be, as we bounced over crumbling bitumen. The day wasn’t cold but the light was weak, the sky grey, which added to the tired, industrial feel of the city. The relief came from the Kura River (the Mt’k’vari river in Georgian, Pyotr told us), its path cutting through the city like a snake. We crossed it on a stone bridge before heading away from the water.
Through a gap in some buildings I saw a large construction site higher up the hill, of what looked like a cathedral of some kind. I wanted to ask Pyotr about it but with Nino driving, it was gone as quickly as I glimpsed it.
Mine and Kevin’s jetlagged brains foggily tried to take in this strange town, and then we turned into a long driveway, with trees lining the way, and seemed to be heading through a large park. Nino tore up the road as though being chased by an unseen enemy and lurched to a halt outside a two-storey building with three ornamental arches and a high roof.
‘We here,’ Nino said and honked the horn.
Kevin and I climbed out of the back seat and took our first look at the winery. I believe its official name was the Sauplistsulo Mamouli Wine Bottling Factory but it was referred to variously by everyone we met as either the Savane Number One winery or the Georgia Number One winery.
Between us, we have always called it the Savane Number One, so let’s go with that.
As well as the tall, arched building, there was a series of smaller, low-slung side buildings. An ornamental garden had been crafted in front of the buildings, including a central stand that might have been a fountain but on closer inspection was being used to dump cigarette butts. A light, with ten white globes like balloons, was an unexpected seventies touch to go with the main building which was a century old.
A red brick building with a tiled roof and a climbing plant starting to grow into the roof was off to our right. Several cars were parked in front of it, mostly sedans and all about ten or more years old. To the back of that building, we could hear noise, mostly people talking. As we gathered our bags from the boot of Nino’s car, several men in polo shirts and jeans wandered across the driveway, disappearing behind a building here, to reappear over there. They gave us curious looks but didn’t wave or engage, maybe in a hurry to get to wherever they were headed. Somebody was hammering something off to our left. This winery seemed to be a hive of activity. I was keen to discover what was being produced.
A door opened in the main building as we were taking in the scene and George and another shorter man appeared, George bounding down the stairs to the driveway and approaching us with a hand outstretched.
‘John!’ he said happily. ‘John and Kevin! It’s so wonderful. Welcome. Number One Winery – and number one for a reason! The best! In all Tbilisi. You will like it here very much. Welcome.’
‘Hello, George,’ I said. ‘We’re very happy to finally be here.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘There are some people for you to meet.’
‘The winery seems busy,’ Kevin said.
‘Oh, yes, very busy,’ said George. ‘Lots of people here, working hard.’
‘How much wine do you make here?’ Kevin asked.
George looked confused. ‘No wine. But soon.’
‘Then why all the people?’
‘Lots to do,’ said George, with a wide smile, but didn’t elaborate. ‘This is Zurab. He’s with me.’
Zurab gazed at us without saying anything as we took him in. He was wearing jeans, running shoes, a T-shirt with a buttoned shirt over the top. A dark and dangerous-looking handgun was stuck in his belt. The Georgian uniform, as far as we could tell. He’d been at the airport the night before but hadn’t been introduced, taking a second car that followed our Mercedes into town. Zurab was slightly shorter than Nino, and stocky, and rarely left George’s side over the next few days.
It only occurred to me later that his entire role was probably to be George’s bodyguard.
Kevin and I gave each other looks as we were led away from the car, into the main building. The foyer’s walls were painted olive green and hung with framed certificates in Georgian, speaking of achievements we couldn’t decipher.
There were four men waiting for us, lined up as though to meet a member of a royal family, or maybe the president.
George did the introductions. First up was a paunchy middle-aged man with a bristling moustache and a comb-over hairstyle. He was the man from the airport, introduced again as Mr Revaz Rustaveli, the chief winemaker, who George had previously only called Mr Revaz. Next to him was Grigol Tsintsadze, the cellar manager, an older man with thick white hair. Then there was the marketing director, a slightly haggard-looking man whose name was Davit something, who wore a silver suit. He nodded, not even bothering to speak.
Finally, a silver-haired man in a blue suit with a pinstripe through it was introduced by George as the managing director of the winery, Mr Tamaz. He shook our now tiring hands and said that he was pleased to meet us.
George earnestly apologised that Nana Vorobieff, the union lady, was not able to be there to meet us but would drop by later. He also rattled off several other names as apologies, so that Kevin and I were left wondering just how much management a seemingly unproductive winery could need.
We were all guided into a small boardroom with a wooden T-shaped table. Mr Tamaz, Mr Revaz and the marketing manager sat at the head of the T, while we sat down one side of the stem, along with Pyotr to translate where required. George sat opposite us with Tamaz. Grigol seemed to have been excused, as he bowed and backed out through the door.
Once we were all seated, George spread his hands and said to us, ‘Mr John and Mr Kevin, welcome to Tbilisi and welcome to Georgia. Our city is capital of Georgia and is historical place. East meets west, Asia meets Europe, right here. We bridge between Christians and Muslims. We once independent after Bolshevik Revolution but then Red Army take over in 1921. Now we independent again and life is good.’
‘Tbilisi is a fascinating city, George,’ I said. ‘We’re delighted to be in Georgia and to explore its long and glorious history.’
George seemed like he would burst with pride. He said, ‘Do you know how Georgia was formed? I will tell you a story.’
‘A story,’ said Kevin. ‘We’d love that.’
‘In the beginning, God, he say to the peoples of the world that they must choose their country; they must divide up the world into what part they want. But the very first Georgians, they busy at a feast when God sets deadline for choosing. They at table with lots of beautiful wine and lots of food. They sitting under pergola, having delicious meal and celebrating the bounty of Georgia’s wonderful natural ingredients and grapes. Then God, he finished dividing up the world into, I don’t know, you know, England, China, Kazakhstan, Greece, and he says, “I done now, job finished,” and heads off for home. But then he sees the Georgians. They completely miss his deadline, they still having a nice time at their feast! And God, he mad about it. Say to Georgians: “What you doing? You don’t respect me or my demand?” But the tamada, the toastmaster, he say to God, “No, wait a moment. You got it wrong. We don’t care we got no place to live, to call our own. We love your world, we love all the beautiful food and wine. We toast you, God, we toast your creation. A toast for God. Another toast for the beautiful food. A toast for the grapes. A toast for the fresh water of this river. A toast for God!” And God, he so happy, he sees the Georgians love his world so much, he says to them, “You know what, I choose your country for you. I give you the one spot left, the one I be saving for myself but, you know, I got Heaven, I okay. You can have this place right here, called Georgia. It paradise, designed for God himself. But now it yours.” And here we are.’
Kevin and I smiled broadly, so that even if the others around the table had no idea what George had been saying in his broken English for so long, they could see that we liked it. Everybody grinned and clapped. Happy that the meeting was going so well.
‘We are extremely honoured and grateful to be in paradise, George,’ I said, almost bowing. ‘Thank you for that story.’
‘Your pleasure,’ George said, before turning to his fellow Georgians. He began to speak in a fast stream of Georgian language, speaking mainly to Tamaz and Revaz, but occasionally turning to Davit to emphasise a point. The Georgians nodded and Tamaz said something in reply, which made George nod furiously and gesture with his arms as he responded.
Then George turned to us and said, ‘I was explaining to the leaders of the Savane that you are very experienced wine people from Australia and that you are excited and ambitious to hear about the history of the winery.’
I smiled and nodded towards the heads of the table, not knowing what else to do. Kevin sat like a stone, smiling slightly. ‘Fantastic,’ he said.
‘Savane Winery has a brilliant history, dating back to 1896,’ George said. ‘Georgia, of course, is the home of wine, the cradle of making wine.’
‘Yes, I believe there are wine jugs dating back 8000 years. Is that right?’ I said.
‘Some people say the Egyptians invent wine but no, it was Georgians,’ George said passionately. ‘The original wine grape, number one on globe, is Vitis vinifera, native to Caucasus region, which means native to here. Even our word for wine, ghvino, is original word. Other places take it and turn it into your wine, your vino, your vin, your Wein. Our word, ghvino? It first.’
‘I didn’t know that, George,’ I said. ‘Fascinating.’
‘Lot of history, John. Very good history,’ George declared. ‘Savane Number One continues to be a proud maker of wine for all of Georgia and for international markets too.’
‘What’s your role in this, George?’ asked Kevin. ‘Are you the owner?’
George gave us a look that was loaded while never losing his smile. ‘All will become clear, Kevin and John. Trust me while I pave the way for our mutual business.’
If those around the table who spoke English found that a strange statement, they gave no sign, and so George ploughed on with a long and elaborate history of the winery, including the fact that it employed seventy-five people and was on 0.77 hectares of land. It had the capacity to produce 40,000 hectolitres of wine annually, which George said equated to 5.3 million bottles. He admitted that in the last few years, such capacity had not been achieved, mostly because of a lack of working capital.
Kevin wrote on his notepad and pushed it slightly to the left so I could read it. Iron Curtain fell. Capitalism. No cash?
I nodded slightly.
George explained that the winery had found it hard to purchase enough actual bottles, while power outages had also affected production. Even so, the winery was confident of producing 100,000 litres of wine, or 1.3 million bottles, in the next calendar year. Sales would be made using direct consumer contacts, while the winery had a cellar door next to the plant itself. Cash flow remained positive, he said – Kevin wrote: How??? – and there were no major liabilities associated with the Savane Number One, all of which was fully explained in documentation that we were welcome to see.
I wrote on Kevin’s pad: They think we’re here to buy the bloody winery.
George finally stopped talking and Mr Tamaz delivered an equally strident monologue in Georgian which Pyotr told us was explaining how our finance and production injection along with international marketing expertise would take Savane Number One to new global heights.
Kevin wrote in his travelogue: If Johnny was standing right now, he would be pacing.
As Mr Tamaz came to the end of his speech, I opened my mouth, unsure of what to say or where to start.
I was saved by George, who said quickly, ‘It’s okay, John. I know how excited you are but let me take it for now. All is well.’
I took that as a cue to not say a word in this meeting, unless specifically asked to. Whatever was going on here, George was in the driver’s seat and we’d have to trust him.
Everybody kept talking for more than an hour. There were discussions about the Georgian partner in the proposed joint venture providing the necessary production facilities and required labour force. There were itemised lists of equipment that the Savane Number One venture currently owned and depreciation estimates.
Kevin finally couldn’t help himself and asked politely if all assets above and below the ground would be included in the venture, such as any existing wines that may reside in the cellars, and George smiled broadly and said yes, of course, under Georgian law if you buy a property you automatically own everything and anything below the ground as well as above the ground.
But that’s as close as we got to the rumoured cellar of wine tantalisingly said to be under our feet. Finally, the meeting was halted for tea and coffee and Kevin and I were able to stretch our legs as a weak sun broke through the grey clouds.
‘So, congratulations on your decision to buy a broken-down winery a long way from home,’ Kevin said as we wandered through the sculpted garden.
‘Nobody has any idea why we’re actually here,’ I said. ‘I mean, apart from George. What is this game that he’s playing?’
‘I think the big question is who is in charge here,’ Kevin said. ‘We’ve always been led to believe, from Neville and George, that it was George who owned this place and who we’d be dealing with. Who are all these other guys? Are they owners? Who are the decision-makers?’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘We just have to play this game and see where it leads. Don’t mention the rare bottles. Don’t say anything at all if we can manage it. Let’s follow George’s lead.’
But once we were all back in the room, George said very little at all, apart from translating what was being said. He sat next to me this time, so he could pass on the odd comment or explanation of what was being said. Pyotr had disappeared. Kevin and I were handed a list of discussion topics, which started with wine, history of wine, any documentation and photos. I felt we’d already covered most of that in the first session, but my heart sank a little as I continued to read: what sort of wine used to be produced, production now, future production. A second list then itemised grape collection, date of starting harvests, sources, a review of winery history, inspections, marketing needs, ownership transfer time line. It went on.
Mr Tamaz held the floor, talking almost nonstop while ticking off all these items, according to the whispered translations George was providing. Every now and then Revaz would chime in and Tamaz would nod or shrug as if to say ‘Of course’ and then continue on. Grigol floated in and out of the room occasionally, and Davit spoke up during the items relating to recounting the winery’s history, and marketing.
Clearly, Tamaz and the others were under the impression we were wealthy Australian investors, here to look at how to turn the Savane Number One Winery back into a successful producer. Nobody seemed to have a clue that we were only interested in the Tsar’s and Stalin’s wine collection. George kept his head down, only politely answering questions, when asked directly by Tamaz. Jetlagged Kevin and I nodded a lot, or smiled, and tried to appear to be listening, but as it was almost entirely in Georgian, we were a little blank about everything being discussed.
Finally, we broke for lunch and Nino appeared, handgun in jeans pocket as always, to drive us, George and Pyotr to a restaurant by the river. We were in the ‘mafia staff car’ Mercedes, hurtling downhill through Tbilisi at up to 100 kph, slowing only slightly when a red light loomed ahead of us. Nino veered and roared through the intersection, saying over his shoulder, ‘Red lights not for us!’
What the hell had I got Kevin and myself into?
I had a long list of very pointed questions for George that I planned to deliver over lunch but not long after we arrived, Mr Revaz, Tamaz and Grigol also sat down around the table. George put a hand gently on my back as he poured me a glass of water and said softly into my ear, ‘This will pass. Enjoy your lunch.’
I shrugged at Kevin and settled into trying to read a menu in Georgian, which is a language that, written, looks like a mix of Latin and Arabic.
The food was actually very good. The first plate served was khachapuri, a staple of the Georgian diet. It’s a tasty cheese bread, with yeasty dough filled with grated cheese mixed with egg. Straight up delicious and a food that we would see often during our stay, served at tiny cafes in the old city or in restaurants like this. George told us the next dish, a stew, was tevzis buglama, translated roughly as salmon stew, and served with boiled potato and rice. Kupati was Georgian sausage, and I never discovered what the ingredients were, while there was also a charkhlis mkhali. Kevin ran the word around in his mouth, as though tasting it along with the purple puree itself. ‘Mkhali,’ he said.
‘Very famous, very traditional,’ said George. ‘We locals call it pkhali. Vegetables, herbs, walnuts. Got to be made by hand to be true good. This one made with beets.’
‘Beetroot?’ I asked.
‘Yes, beets,’ George nodded. ‘Goes well with good wine of which, luckily, we have very much.’
Even better, this was our first chance to sample the Savane Number One’s actual wine. Mr Tamaz produced a bottle of red, imaginatively titled ‘Savane’, and Kevin and I both eagerly offered our glasses, before sniffing, swirling and examining the wine. When I finally tasted it, the wine was completely unremarkable.
After we finished that bottle, a white wine was produced with ‘GWC’ on the label. George explained this was the Georgian Wine Company, a joint venture a local Tbilisi entrepreneur had with a Dutch company. I guess it was presented to show us a glittering example of how international partnerships in the local wine industry can work. We tasted the white and, again, it was drinkable but nothing special.
Even so, an unspectacular wine can still do its job, to relax the tense muscles of Australians half a world away from Sydney and yet no closer to a fabled multi-million-dollar wine collection. I let the local wine flow through me and enjoyed the food and the spectacular view along the Mt’k’vari river. Everybody seemed to drop their guard over lunch, toasting our arrival and working hard to be friendly, to show they were glad we were in town. George was several people away from me, chatting with Tamaz and Grigol without appearing to be talking shop.
‘George,’ I asked, leaning forward to gain his attention. ‘What are those big balconies that run almost between the houses or buildings on the other side of the river? It looks like people walk along them.’
The balconies mostly were timber, with struts underneath, so they ran on top of the footpath below.
‘Is true, John,’ George said. ‘Balconies communal place for people to walk, meet, eat, hang out. Not private. For the people. You want to get together? Balcony a good option for us. The river, the city, it belong to everybody.’
Tamaz said something and George turned away from me again. I took a deep breath, sipped wine and served myself from a herb and egg salad that had arrived. Kevin was somewhat warily attempting to chat with Pyotr.
Handgun casually on the table, just like today you might put your smartphone next to your bread plate while you eat, Pyotr had perfect posture as he sat, and chatted in broken English.
‘What’s your background, Pyotr?’ Kevin asked, to which Pyotr shrugged and said, ‘I was originally from Chechnya. Now I am here. There were some interesting roads between the two places.’
‘Chechnya,’ Kevin said. ‘You had to leave there?’
‘Not something to talk about,’ Pyotr said with finality, although no discernible annoyance. Just end of discussion.
George had returned to our conversation and so I pointed across the river to the huge construction site that I’d seen from the car, halfway up the opposite hill, and surrounded by houses.
‘What is that being built?’ I asked.
‘The Holy Trinity Cathedral,’ George answered. ‘A major construction for Tbilisi. It is nine years since we were removed from the Communist rule. The cathedral is a symbol: that Tbilisi can build new churches, can take risks and has income.’
‘Is there good income among the people?’ I asked.
‘No, is terrible,’ George said, and smiled broadly at the juxtaposition of what he’d just said. ‘Lots have no money. We need income from world.’
I opened my mouth to speak but George already had a hand up, saying, ‘John, I know. Please. All will be well. Can you see up there, above the town? Narikala Fortress, very ancient, very interesting. Fourth century, John! We will take you for a visit while you’re here.’
I sipped my wine and realised I couldn’t force the issue, not here in a restaurant overlooking the river with everybody enjoying themselves.
Instead I asked, ‘Is it true that Josef Stalin came from Tbilisi?’
‘He born in Gori, small Georgia town, but, yes, he big man in Georgia before he join the revolution,’ Pyotr said. ‘He part of Messame Dassy, Georgian independence group. His name then was Dzhugashvili.’
‘Not Stalin?’ I asked.
‘He became Stalin while exiled in Siberia, by Tsar. Stalin mean “steel”,’ Pyotr explained.
‘How is he regarded here in Tbilisi?’ I asked.
George sighed and shifted in his seat, taking a while to answer, softly, leaning forward. ‘It complicated,’ he said. ‘Lots of people, here and in world, see Stalin as a monster, we know. But John, he also big Georgian man, very famous. Not many Georgians so powerful. He has his supporters for that reason. You might see smiling picture of him in taxi or on wall of restaurant. He our champion, even if not a nice guy, no? Lots of death, John, under his watch, over many years. Sure, we like being a republic now, not part of Communist bloc. Stalin stays underground in his grave. That’s good.’
I had so many questions, but George was clearly keen to change the subject.
Eventually, we made our way out the front door to Nino’s Mercedes, parked half on the footpath right outside the doorway, and he roared back to the winery. We waited a couple of minutes until Grigol’s car turned up, with Mr Tamaz and Revaz.
‘It would be great to look around the winery,’ I said brightly to George. ‘We’d love to see what we’re potentially buying into.’
‘Of course, John. That’s a wonderful idea,’ he said, before turning to Tamaz and Revaz to chat briefly in Georgian. Grigol gazed, unsmiling, at us as we set off around the property.
The first few rooms we poked our heads into were abandoned storage spaces and what appeared to be old tasting areas. By the layer of dust and the scattered old equipment, it was difficult to know when they’d last been used. The afternoon light showed swirls of dust particles in the air as we walked through one room and into a larger inner chamber that turned out to be the bottling line.
‘This hasn’t been used in years,’ Kevin murmured to me as we took in the archaic equipment. ‘When did they last actually produce wine?’
‘I’m starting to think many years ago,’ I whispered in return.
We walked around the bottling line, nodding and showing great interest, as though with a quick wipe-down this would be churning out a million bottles per year within a day or so.
From there, we went to what looked almost like a large chicken coop – a flat patch of earth – but with what appeared to be enormous red clay vessels buried up to their narrow necks. ‘You know marani?’ asked George. ‘This here is marani, place of burying kvevris.’ He indicated the earthenware containers. ‘Traditional Georgian winemaking, in clay, for making machari. Most winemaking now European method, but we have big kvevris buried, for traditional style. Do it right if we feel.’
‘I’m definitely going to have to read up on that, George. It sounds fascinating.’
‘Clay-made wine is different and good,’ he said, opening what turned out to be the back door of the main building.
‘Let’s go downstairs,’ said George and my heartbeat picked up. At last.
Revaz, the chief winemaker, reached inside a door to turn on a dim light that did enough to illuminate stairs heading down below.
He was followed by Grigol, the cellar manager, then Tamaz, George, Kevin and me. Pyotr brought up the rear.
The cellars filled several rooms, with rows of mostly identical bottles heading into the gloom. Occasionally we would pick one up and look at the label. The numbers 89 or 85 suggested the year of production, while the rest of the label was in Georgian but with the Savane logo at the top. There was a layer of dust over most of the bottles but nothing to suggest anything that had been lying in this vault for half a century or more.
As we headed back to the surface, Kevin asked mildly, ‘Is that all of the cellars?’
‘There is a second level, and a third level,’ George said. ‘Mr Tamaz would rather we talked some more in his office.’
And so it went, for another three hours. Tamaz and George trading questions and answers, almost exclusively in Georgian, with George occasionally leaning towards us to offer translated speeches about the history of the winery and the potentially glorious future. About the need for production recommencement and levels of investment. He handed us a document with speculative calendar dates.
George also tried to keep us abreast of endless, pointless questions from Tamaz to Revaz about past successes and the best vintages from the winery, as though Tamaz had never heard any of this information before and had just thought to ask while we happened to be sitting in the room. A strange and clumsy pantomime for two men who didn’t speak the language.
The fight to not succumb to jet lag was mighty and I think I may have actually nodded my head once or twice shortly before they called a halt to the charade and we finally got to wander outside into the fresh air.
‘George,’ I said. ‘The bottles.’
We were standing next to Nino’s car, about to leave for the day. We hadn’t seen a single bottle of interest and I wasn’t about to climb into the back seat of the Mercedes without making that point.
‘It has been a wonderful day, John,’ George said, smiling broadly. ‘My associates are very excited by the potential of our venture and have had a chance to say many things that they have been wishing to say to you. Let’s talk some more over dinner, yes?’
‘George, I’m just concerned that—’
‘Yes, John, yes. It’s all good and exciting, is it not? Mr Tamaz here could not be happier and I am happy too. Let’s give you a chance to have a shower before we have dinner, yes?’
I stood there, feeling anger building. ‘George, we are only here for four days and this is the end of the first day,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said, with almost cartoonish pleasure. ‘Four days. Plenty of time. Time for all kinds of things, John. So much to explore. Now, let’s give you a chance to rest and freshen up.’
I felt Kevin’s hand on my arm. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea, John. Let’s do that. I could do with some downtime before dinner.’
‘Okay, sure,’ I said. I shook hands with Mr Tamaz, Mr Revaz and the marketing manager, who had reappeared towards the end of the day. Grigol hadn’t come out to the car.
‘Thank you for a fascinating day and for your kind hospitality,’ I said in English, before George rattled off the words in the local language. ‘I look forward to exploring the winery in even more detail tomorrow.’
Nino pulled his handgun out of his waistband and put it in the cup holder between the front seats as he slid into the driver’s seat. Kevin and Pyotr climbed into the back and I got to sit in the front passenger seat for an even more vivid view of what it’s like to drive at high speed through red lights in a crowded city. At the hotel, Pyotr and Nino nodded unsmiling goodbyes.
I went straight to the reception desk to ask about international dial codes, then went to my room, picked up the phone and called Neville Rhodes’s office number, before my exhausted brain finally managed to do a rough time zone calculation. It was 6 pm in Tbilisi, which meant it was midnight in Sydney. No wonder he hadn’t picked up. Despite the hour in Australia, I also rang Harry on his home number and his mobile but he didn’t answer either.
I hung up, stared out the window at the gathering darkness and realised how tired I was, as well as frustrated and worried. I lay on the bed, set an alarm and almost immediately, in spite of my swirling brain, fell into a deep sleep.