1
Does Khosraw know that his Russian success will do him no good, that it will go to his head too much, and that five years later, during the struggle for the throne, they will gouge out his eyes, and he will live the rest of his life blind?
And does the guard of honor arranged on the way to pay the last honors to Griboedov’s remains, which are moving very slowly toward Tiflis, do they know whom they are greeting?
2
One night, some men were sent to the Russian legation building, with all its gaping holes.
They carried lanterns and spades.
Khosrow-Khan, the shah’s eunuch, gave them their instructions.
The Russian government had demanded that Vazir-Mukhtar’s body be handed over.
Khosrow-Khan ordered a ditch to be dug up. They soon discovered the black, semidecayed bodies and some body parts. They were hurled out of the ditch and landed nearby, looking so much the same as one another as if the same factory had manufactured them according to the same measurements. Except some of them were missing hands, others legs, and there were also objects that were completely unidentifiable.
The shah’s eunuch knew how to handle the task. He did not rely on himself: he had seen too little of Vazir-Mukhtar to be able to recognize him. He therefore brought a few familiar Armenian merchants who claimed that they would be able to identify him. They had seen him often enough in Tiflis.
When they were saying this, they imagined a man of a medium height, with a yellowish face, shaven blue to the bone, with the protruding lips of a musician and bespectacled eyes.
But when Khosrow-Khan and the merchants bent over the unidentifiable objects, with the lanterns casting a light on their color and condition, they recoiled, realizing that these remains were unrecognizable.
The eunuch was at a loss.
He ordered them to dig deeper, to cross the road, and to dig another ditch.
The objects were growing in number. Eventually, they came across an unusual hand. When the lantern was lowered over it, a shining spot hit the light. Khosrow-Khan peered and saw a diamond signet ring. He ordered the hand to be put aside and said to the old merchant:
“Avetis Kuzinian, could you please identify Vazir-Mukhtar now?”
The old merchant picked up the lantern again and once again circled the dead. The other merchants went along with him too.
One of them finally said: “Impossible to identify,” and everyone stopped.
The eunuch asked: “So what are we to do?” and turned very pale.
Avetis Kuzinian continued to walk with the lantern and to look around. Then he approached the eunuch. He was an old merchant from Tiflis who knew a thing or two about goods and how to trade them.
“Has the shah ordered you to find Griboed?” he asked the eunuch in Armenian.
And the name “Griboed” was sounded for the first time ever.
“So it’s not about the man,” continued the old Avetis Kuzinian. “It’s about the name.”
The eunuch was not getting it yet.
“Does it matter,” said the old man, “does it really matter who is going to lie over here and who is going to lie over there? It is the name that has to lie over there, so take from here what most suits the name. This one-handed one,” he pointed with his finger, “is in a better condition and was not beaten as much as the rest of them. It’s impossible to tell the color of his hair. Take him and add the hand with the diamond ring, and you’ll have your Griboed.”
They took the one-handed one and added the hand. The sum total was Griboed.
They put Griboed into a simple box made of wooden planks. He was taken to the Armenian church, a burial service was read, and he lay there for a week. Then they found a tahtrevan, filled two sacks with straw and fixed the box between the two sacks because one should not load a horse, an ass or an ox only with a dead weight.
And the tahtrevan set off, driven by the old Avetis Kuzinian and a few other Armenians.
The vazir-mukhtar was different now: Count Simonich, an old, half-blind, retired general, was brought out of retirement and appointed vazir-mukhtar.
Various people had dreams about Griboedov. Nino saw him as he was when he had sat with her on the windowsill of the Akhverdovs’ house.
In his Schlüsselburg fortress cell, the friend of his youth, Wilhelm Küchelbecker, had dreams about him—he did not know about his death. They did not speak, and Griboedov was happy.
In Petersburg, having found an old letter from him, Katya suddenly fell deep into thought.
Griboed was traveling to Tiflis, slowly and patiently, on a bullock cart between two sacks of straw.
3
The oxen ascended the mountain road at a majestic pace. The Gergery Fortress, bare as a mountain, was behind them, on a lofty bank. A bridge that looked like Pan’s pipes was ahead; the rapid stream ran playfully beneath. Griboed, between two sacks of straw, was approaching the bridge.
A horseman wearing a cap and black sheepskin cloak had just crossed the bridge. He was going fast down the shelving road. Having reached the tahtrevan, he nodded in passing to the travelers and asked them quickly in Russian:
“Where are you from?”
Avetis Kuzinian nodded at him and answered halfheartedly:
“From Tehran.”
Having almost passed them by, the man glanced at the sacks and the box with a traveler’s eye and asked:
“What are you carrying?”
Avetis nodded at him impassively:
“Griboed.”
The horse continued to bear its rider quickly down the mountainside, and suddenly it pranced and came to a halt. The man pulled on the reins.
He was peering into the tahtrevan. The oxen shook their tails, and he could see only the front sack and the two Armenians sitting at the back.
Pushkin took off his cap.
There was no death. There was a simple coffin made of rough wooden planks, which he had mistaken for a box of fruit. The oxen were moving out of sight, steadily and slowly.
He went off, restraining his horse.
One could sense the border between scorched Georgia and fresh Armenia. It was growing cooler.
The purple udders ahead were the hills; the road was the empty line of a manuscript draft.
The river was rattling behind.
“Certain dark clouds overshadowed his life.”
Overhead, the round and tangible clouds were gathering, growing thicker.
“Overwhelming circumstances. Did he leave any papers?”
The rain started to drizzle, and in the distance, the sheet-lightning lit up the green expanse in a broken line. He turned around. The oxen down below looked like flies. It was getting dark. The road was poor, and his horse was worn out.
“He had nothing more left to do. His death was instant and glorious. He had made his mark: he left us Woe from Wit.”
His horse wandered and stumbled. Pushkin said: “What a nag,” fastened the leather straps to his cloak, and put his hood up to cover his cap. The rain poured down … “Instantaneous and magnificent … Let’s surrender ourselves to providence.” The cloak won’t get drenched. Some coffin! A packing case.”
The clouded meadows were in bloom. Eastern lushness was proverbial.
A pile of rocks, which looked like a hovel, came into view.
Women in brightly colored rags sat on the long stone—the flat roof of an underground saklya, a pit dwelling. A little boy with a toy saber in his hand danced in the rain.
Pushkin said: “Tea, please,” climbed off the horse, and found shelter under the stone overhang.
They brought him some cheese and milk.
Pushkin threw them some money. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. He rode off and glanced back.
The boy was trampling the water in the puddle; the women were staring at the departing traveler …
Prosperity and Christianity could civilize them, he thought, the samovar and the Gospels could do them a lot of good.
And suddenly he remembered Griboedov.
Griboedov touched him with his refined hand and said:
“I know the whole thing. You don’t know these people. As soon as the shah dies, the knives will be out.”
And he looked at him.
He seemed in good spirits. He was both embittered and in good spirits.
He had known, but still he had slipped up. But if he had known … why …
Why had he gone there?
Power … destiny … regeneration …
Something cold went past his face.
“We as a nation lack curiosity … An extraordinary man …
Perhaps a Descartes who hadn’t written a thing? Or a Napoleon without a single soldier?”
Then he remembered:
“What are you carrying?”
“Griboed.”
THE END