[GEORGIA]

GURAM DOCHANASHVILI

A Fellow Traveler

A little train is running from Bakuriani to Borjomi. There are only three men in one of the compartments, sitting facing one another. Two of them are younger than the third. The guys are wearing ski boots, tight trousers, and sweaters—one in red, another in light blue. The third man is actually somewhat old. He is playing with a cigarette holder, balanced on his knee, and looking out the window. The man is sitting with his back to the engine and his eyes seem to be following something out there. Whereas the young men’s eyes are wide, as though welcoming something they see coming up. Of the three of them, though, it’s the old man who seems most interested in what’s going on outside the train. The guys are bored with Bakuriani, really. It was amazing at first, they were skiing, throwing snowballs at one another, just generally having fun, sliding down the slopes on their toboggans. They enjoyed their nighttime promenades, the snow crunching under their heavy boots. Dogs would bark just for the sake of barking, off in the distance, and sometimes the lights in this or that cabin would go off as they passed by, sleepy Bakuriani. As though to make up for it, the stars would light up in the sky . . . The guys were pleased with their entire trip, but those long strolls through virgin snow were their particular favorite. At some point, though, the guy in the blue sweater hurt his leg and had to be confined to bed. The holidays were over, then, all at once. Bakuriani saw off its visitors. The guy in the blue sweater would lie in bed, trapped, looking out the window of his room. And the guy in red stopped going out as well, except for food. This is what their fun got reduced to: looking out windows, one sitting, one lying down. Outside, the snow covered everything . . . Sometimes they would tell each other old stories to pass the time—they would begin in fits and starts, uneasily, then they would remember something or other that seemed especially pressing, and then they would pick up steam, proving a point, making a case for this or that. The more their subject was exhausted of enthusiasm, the more they would turn back, slowly and surely, to the window. Outside, the snow covered everything. The guys were already bored with the snow. They would turn their heads and look at the wall instead. The walls were pocked with spots of various sizes. Some of the spots had taken on various shapes: a bearded man, for example, or a bear, or whatnot. The guys would look to the wall for a little excitement.

And now they are sitting in front of the old man.

And the man is mainly looking out the window. One can see only snow and trees out there, nothing else. And the trees are welcoming our three men of various ages, standing (the trees) in pairs, or one by one, or in large groups. The old man is following the trees with his eyes, in pairs, or one by one, or in large groups. The younger men are soon bored with looking out of the window. They’d like to find something amusing to focus on; they’re looking the ceiling over, they’re looking over the floor. The ceiling, unfortunately, has received a recent coat of fresh white paint—now, try to find any fun up there . . . it’s spotless and smooth. Whereas the hardwood floor has narrow channels running across it, between the planks, which at least has some potential, humor-wise.

I wish the skis would fall down, so I could stand them up again, the guy in the light blue sweater is thinking.

The guy in the red sweater would love to do a little singing, but he’s bashful in front of the old man. Is he doomed to boredom? And if the old man weren’t there, he’d talk to his friend, Temur, about Maia. He’d tell him what a caring soul she is. So caring that she even pities the hen they saw for sale at the market fair, hanging there upside down. Someone should cut it loose, she said. But, look—what can he say in the presence of this weird old man?

He’s a real nuisance, the guy in the red sweater thinks, looking down at the old man’s boots. Not that the fellow is doing anything wrong. No, he’s just sitting quietly and looking out the window. His eyes taking in the sight of all those trees—in pairs, one by one, or in bunches . . .

The snow is losing its whiteness little by little, going gray. The lights have switched on in the carriage.

The guy in the red sweater wants to get a closer look at the old man’s face. He knows, however, that if he steals a glance, the old man will notice. So he is gradually sneaking little looks, making a composite portrait. There’s the cigarette holder, then the button on his shirt pocket. One peep more and . . .

What a long nose he has, the guy in the red sweater thinks.

The old man is still looking out of the window.

What a vacant expression he has, the guy in a red sweater thinks. The small train stops at Sakochao. The two guys look around out the window with renewed interest—maybe here they might catch sight of something funny. The platform is lit up. There is a bell hanging on a wall. A man is standing at the bell, so smothered in winter clothes that no one could have guessed whether he was thin or fat. The guys are staring out of the window with avid eyes, first it was only trees and snow and then, suddenly, there emerged this platform, its bell and man. This is new, or somewhat, and interesting, somehow. The muffled-up man feels the insistence in the guys’ stare, and it bewilders him not a little. He doesn’t want the guys to notice his bewilderment so steps aside and spits as nonchalantly as he can manage.

How I wish there were some spots on the ceiling . . .

The snow is now grayish. The snow is glittering in the place where the lights from the train touch the ground.

The two guys hear, distantly, the peal of the muffled-up man’s bell. The muffled-up man has performed his duty and is now on his way—somewhere. He is still aware of the insistent stares coming from the train, following him, and is trying to walk as gracefully as possible. He swings his arms only moderately, and he finds himself lifting his knees a bit more than usual; well, there’s a funny tension in his gait. The guy in the red sweater is smiling and turning his head toward his fellow travelers. Temur is smiling too. The man isn’t playing with his cigarette holder anymore, but has rested it on his knee.

What a vacant expression . . . what a long nose . . .

The man is looking—somewhere.

I wonder what he sees out there?

But the man isn’t actually looking at anything in particular. He is simply watching.

And now the little train is on its way again.

The man is toying with his cigarette holder again—or he’s resting it on his knee, pointing this way or that, with the cigarette end forward, or with the mouthpiece, depending.

—Do you like it? Temur asks the man.

—What? The old man smiles, because he can’t figure out what he’s being asked.

—The snow . . . do you like it?

—Oh yes, the snow is great.

—You must really love snow, the guy in the red sweater says. You haven’t looked away from the window the whole trip.

—Yeah, sorry . . . I do love snow, very much.

—Why? the guy in the red sweater asks, but his tone is so ingenuous that the irony behind the question is wholly inaudible.

—Well, I don’t know . . . the man says. When I look at the snowy ground and the trees I feel peaceful. There’s so much peace in the snow, an overwhelming amount of peace . . . can you call peace “overwhelming”?

—Sure, why not . . . anything can be overwhelming.

—All right, then. That’s why I love snow.

—Because it feels peaceful? Temur asks.

—Yeah. Peacefulness is . . . peaceful. I look at the snow for as long as I can . . . then I start staring at some fir tree. And there’s snow on the branches of the fir tree. And though they neither bend nor sway, I feel afraid on account of the fir tree, because it could always move in the wind, or get too weighed down, and then it would shake the snow from its shoulders . . . and the peace would be broken.

—Peace is a little too boring for me, the guy in the red sweater says.

—Yeah. You’re young. You’re not supposed to like too much peacefulness. If you love snow, no doubt it’s because you love to ski, or throw snowballs.

—The guy in the red sweater doesn’t like the man’s answer much. He gets angry and is trying to find a way to show the old man up without his noticing.

—Excuse me, but you don’t by any chance write poetry, do you?

—No. The man is smiling. Why?

—It’s just that you described the winter landscape so sensitively . . .

—Ha! I guess I didn’t do too badly at that. Still, the old man goes on, if I was really a poet, I’d have known whether or not you can call peace “overwhelming” . . .

The man is smoking a cigarette now, fumigating their compartment.

—Overwhelming, he says thoughtfully. A tremendous word.

—Tremendous how?

—I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just that . . . well, it seems to me that some words fit so beautifully, so particularly well with their respective definitions. I mean that the music of the word, its sound, happens to fit what it means. Take, for instance, “antiaircraft” . . . there’s something so strong, so formidable in the sound of it. Or, like “bird” . . . when you say it, you can almost see a little, delicate, feeble . . . and, well, the sound of the word “overwhelming” too, I think fits its meaning. Do you follow me?

—Not entirely.

—Well, say “overwhelming.”

—Overwhelming.

—Can’t you feel it, something big, maybe too big?

—Nope.

—I think, Temur says . . . I think “lion” is a good one too.

—Lion? asks the guy in red. Not at all. I think “lion” is way too delicate. Effete, even.

—Yeah, said the old man. I don’t think “lion” works at all. Think of it: a terrible beast on the one hand, and that little wisp of a word on the other: “lion.”

—All right, all right—what about “moon”? (Temur is trying to play along.) I think that works very well. But not “sun.” The sun should have been given some other name, something bigger . . . more euphonious . . .

—Yeah, exactly, the old man says, and feels happy that Temur understands him.

There’s a lull in their conversation. The guy in the red sweater stands up.

—Where are you going Dato?

—I’m going to warm up a little. I feel cold.

—Why, it’s not cold in here, boy, says the old man.

—Maybe not for you . . .

Dato starts shaking his hands to and fro, then he turns around a few times, sits down quickly, and stands up even quicker, Temur recollects his hurt leg.

—It’s so good to be young, the old man says to Temur.

Without any particular reason, Dato feels awkward now and sits back down.

The train stops.

—Which station is it, I wonder? Temur asks, looking back to the window.

The snow is blue. It glitters only where direct light falls.

—Little Tsemi, the man replies and looks through the window as well. Yeah, it’s Little Tsemi.

Dato stares at the old man, fuming. Why did he stop his calisthenics? Why does the man make him feel so awkward?

That big nose . . . that idiotic expression . . .

Again a bell rings. Again the small train moves on.

—It’s actually getting colder in here . . . there must be a draft coming from somewhere, Temur says.

—Do you remember, Temur, how stuffy it was when we were at the sea, panting at the open window for even a little breeze. Do you remember?

—Sure I remember, Temur says.

—How awesome it was, the sea, Dato says, cheering up. Nothing beats the sea!

—We got bored with the sea too, eventually, as I recall.

—Not at all, I wasn’t the least bit bored.

—Sure you were.

—Never! How could I get bored with the sea . . . ? Ah, the sea is so gorgeous . . . Just the pleasure of lazing around on the sand makes it worthwhile. No, you don’t laze, you stretch out onto it, entrusting your body to the sun . . . The sun will burn you, will calm you, will take you over, till you can’t think of anything, can’t remember anything, you’re just feeling the sun. Eventually you get up, and you’re . . . can one say, “saturated” with sun?

—I’m not sure.

—Well, in any case . . . You’re saturated with sun, and so you step into the cool, pleasant sea. The gorgeous sea! Now the sea, the sea really is overwhelming. The overwhelming sea . . . The word “overwhelming” actually fits the word “sea,” I think, Dato says, looking at the old man.

The man is looking through the window. The snow is now dark blue.

What a foolish expression he has, Dato thinks, feeling compelled to engage the man in conversation nonetheless.

—Do you like the sea? he asks.

—Well, now, I don’t really know . . .

—What? Have you never seen the sea, then?

—Yes, I have . . .

—How could you not love it, then? The sea is amazing, awe-inspiring . . . That’s like saying you don’t like sunsets. You’ve seen the sun set, right?

—Yes, certainly I’ve seen it . . . the man says uneasily, without taking his eyes from the window.

I was so sure that he’d love nature, Temur thinks.

—Well, didn’t you like it? Sunsets too are awe-inspiring, Dato says, looking at the ceiling. It turns bluish-green and blue. A golden reddish disc emerges into the blue. The disc is leaving the blue space slowly, lingeringly, hiding in the bluish-green.

—Ah, the greatness of the sea, Dato says. How could anyone not love the sea?

—Perhaps it’s not so rare as all that, the old man says.

—You only like peace, is that it? But isn’t it peaceful at the seaside? Isn’t it peaceful at the seaside during sunset? You know, I’ve often observed that when people go out to watch the sun go down over the ocean, they tend to whisper. They stand there and whisper! It’s so tranquil, then they’re so calm. They don’t want to break the spell. They don’t want to ruin the peacefulness of it all.

—You don’t understand. What I like is . . . oblivion. To lose oneself in nothingness, you know? That’s the kind of peace I enjoy.

—And the sea isn’t good enough for you? Look, nothing obliterates the self like a raging sea! You haven’t thought this through. How great is a raging sea, anyway?

The old man is nervously tapping his cigarette holder on his knee.

—How great it is to sit and watch the sea rage, Dato says, looking at nothing in particular. Think about it. The sea is preparing a wave. It gets a good running start. It shakes a little, then rocks back and forth, then it brings in other waves in clusters, then it swings them all around, and . . . you hear it roar, the waves all come crashing onto the shore, look at it roll those rocks around, the big ones too, and of course the little pebbles, and finally it’s just clinging to the sand as it rolls back, it seems to me that a wave has fingers . . . Are you sure you don’t like the sea?

The old man’s muscles can be seen tensing up and relaxing again in his cheeks.

—Are you sure, Dato goes on, that you don’t like the rough and powerful sea?

—Enough! the old man shouts. Why can’t you leave me in peace?

The man is on his feet, glaring down at at Dato. He looks like he’s ready to attack.

—Why, what did I say? Dato asks, astonished.

The old man sees that this surprise is genuine. He sits back down. Almost calm.

—Sorry, the man says, looking down.

But Dato is furious now. Why did he yell at me? What the hell did he have to yell about?

—You know, Dato says, if you were my age, I wouldn’t let you get away with that. But, look, you’re—what? My dad’s age, probably. At least.

Silence is necessary and inevitable at such moments.

There are channels running between the planks that make up the coach’s floor.

Dato wants to look at the man, but doesn’t want to get caught doing it. He’s a bit worried, frankly.

And the train continues on. And the train probably stopped at yet another station, in the meantime, at which yet another bell was rung, after which the train started up again, and is now continuing on.

Dato risks looking at the old man’s boots. Then at his knees. Then at the button on his shirt pocket. Then at his face.

Which doesn’t really have a big nose at all.

What a sad expression the old man has.

—Sorry, Dato says.

—No need to apologize, kid. You couldn’t have known. Please excuse me for crying. I was crying because of the sea, the sea . . .

Silence again. The cigarette holder is tapping on the old man’s knee again. First he taps it with the cigarette end, then with the mouthpiece, in turn.

Dato wants to console the man, or to say something pleasant to the man. He can’t find the word.

The old man is looking back through the window. The snow is altogether black now. It looks black, anyway. But perhaps it’s still white, somewhere.

—I love it very much, the man says. Yes, I see the sea, the raging sea . . . But when I’m looking at the snow, I forget everything. I just feel peacefulness. Sometimes I look at some of the fir trees too. There’s so much snow on the branches of a fir tree, but the branches don’t bend, they don’t sway. Yet I worry that the tree might shake down the snow from its shoulders . . . If that happens, the silence will break, and the sight of the sea will come back to me, and I’ll remember it . . . and I don’t want to remember it. Peace, emptiness—those are better. The old man smiles sadly and says: overwhelming peace.

And back again he turns to the window. And, as ever, the little train is moving ahead.

Overwhelming, Dato thinks. Overwhelming is a real cool word.

TRANSLATED FROM GEORGIAN BY KHATUNA BERIDZE