In the victory of Communism’s immortal ideal,

We see the future of our dear land.

And to her fluttering scarlet banner,

Selflessly true we always shall stand!

SOVIET NATIONAL ANTHEM

The next morning, two militsiya officials appeared in the dean’s office at the film faculty wanting to know how it was possible for a pathetic little student to permit himself the inexpressible effrontery of daring to do a thing like this.

‘But, comrades, what film? There is no film.’ The head of department tried to placate them. ‘We questioned the student Eristavi yesterday and he assured us that the footage no longer exists …’

‘And you believe him, my friend?’ interrupted the stocky militsiya officer, the more abrupt of the two.

‘No, of course not. But it does mean that he’ll never be able to finish editing this film or show it anywhere, because we issued an immediate ban to this effect until we’ve seen the raw material ourselves. The student Eristavi is not a reactionary; he’s more the sensitive type. I wouldn’t worry about him.’

The dean was trying hard to get rid of the militsiya men so he could sort out the situation internally, without unpredictable outside interference.

‘Comrade Eristavi won’t get any stupid ideas. I assure you that this problem is not worth your time; I’m sure you have more important things to do than concern yourselves with such a harmless incident.’

‘You can leave it to us to decide whether this matter is deserving of our attention or not, Comrade! And your students don’t seem all that harmless. We’ve asked around: the whole institute is talking about this film.’

‘But it doesn’t exist. No one’s ever seen it. Comrades, this is ridiculous!’

‘Ridiculous? Ridiculous? You’re calling us ridiculous? These anarchists hold nothing more sacred than trampling our values underfoot, laughing in our face, spitting on us — you’re saying this is ridiculous? And these are the kind of people you’re raising to be the artistic future of our country?’

‘As long as there is no film, this boy can’t be accused of anything. It’s a lot of fuss about something trivial. Young people nowadays sometimes like to exaggerate. They all see themselves as rebels; you know how it is, comrades, we were all twenty once, and —’

‘In that case, please inform your harmless student that we expect the reels to be in our possession by Wednesday. If after that he continues to maintain that all the footage has disappeared, he’ll have to pay a visit to our headquarters.’

*

‘They’re trying to frighten you, can’t you see? They’re trying to frighten you, Miqa! Just hold your nerve. Stick to your story. You don’t know where the reels are — that’s actually true, in a way. You really don’t know where I’ve taken the film. So there’s no need for you to be afraid. I’m here with you. I’ll be by your side.’

The non-existent film was threatening to have ever more serious consequences, and seemed to be sending Lana into absolute ecstasies.

‘I swear they’ll celebrate you as a hero. I’m telling you, the rumour mill in the Institute is already working overtime. They’re going to envy you, they’re going to worship you — yes, that’s how a director should be, we should be like that, but no, we’re just cowardly little idiots, mummy’s boys and daddy’s darlings — that’s what they’ll think. Yes, Miqa, they’ll finally recognise you for what you are. Just imagine what it’ll be like to tell our little one these stories: I’m sure it’s going to be a boy, the spitting image of you, Miqa. Imagine how proud of us he’ll be. When he sees our film, and we tell him this whole story. He’ll look up to you, his brave Papa.’

‘Stop it!’ Miqa slammed his fist on the table. ‘You’re refusing to face the facts! Can’t you see the trouble we’re in? The militsiya are already on to my film; even if I get through this interrogation tomorrow I’ll be thrown out.’

‘Miqa, Miqa, my little one, come here … you worry far too much!’

She got up and went over to him, snuggled against him, hopped onto his lap, and clasped his head in her hands.

‘Do as I say. Then nothing will happen to you. Have I ever let you down? Have I ever given you a single reason to doubt my words? Miqa, please. We’ll go there together. We’ll clear this up. Please — leave the others out of it. Especially Christine. If she gets wind of it, she’ll make an operatic scene to get you to give up and agree to hand over the film. Come on, give me your hand. Look how swollen my breasts are; they’re practically bursting at the seams.’

And she placed his hand on her breast, and planted a firm kiss on his lips.

*

The militsiya interrogation didn’t last long. Miqa’s attempts to stick to his version of events with the stolen film reels were dismissed in seconds as ludicrous. He was given an ultimatum and told he had to hand over the raw footage within the week. If he didn’t, they told him with mischievously provocative smiles, the case would be passed on to the public prosecutor.

Sweating and gasping for breath, he reeled out onto the street. In that bare militsiya room he had suppressed all his fear, but now it erupted. Tears of humiliation and shame glittered in his eyes. Once he and Lana were far enough away from the militsiya station he started raging, right there in the middle of the street; saliva flew from his lips, he gesticulated wildly, stamped his feet, started saying something only to break off and begin again, until he stopped, exhausted, and, because he didn’t know what else to do with himself, crouched down on his haunches.

She knelt beside him, put an arm round his shoulder, and spoke to him urgently, using all her powers of persuasion. Her calmness and confidence drove the consternation out of his body; again and again she stressed how proud their son would be of him now, what a great artist he was in her eyes, how valiantly he was fighting, that he had nothing to fear because they had no solid evidence against him.

‘No one’s seen this film. No one can bring charges against you over a blank, Miqa, a rumour, something that doesn’t exist. No one can force you to do anything because of this. They’re frightening you; they just want to intimidate you.’

He tried not to look at her, at her oily eyes behind the thick lenses of her glasses. He tried not to inhale her steadfast determination; because today, in this neutral, cold interrogation room, he had understood for the first time that the game had turned deadly serious. And that Lana, who had manoeuvred him into making the film, might have very different interests to him. He didn’t want to look at her, so he wouldn’t have to scream in her face that this was her fault; that it was him, not her, who was being subjected to this whole shameful process, that she had put not only him but all those involved, the people who had trusted him, in this terrible and absolutely unwarranted danger.

At the start of the interrogation, when he realised that these officials really were taking the whole thing very seriously, he was just about to admit that perhaps he had gone a bit far, and assure them that he would give the reels back the following morning. But then another thought had come to him, an absolutely irrational, incredible, yet almost logical thought. What if Kostya Jashi were behind all this? What if he had taken up arms against him again? Scarcely had the thought occurred to him, scarcely had he formulated it in his mind, than suddenly everything was as clear as day, consistent — and he felt he did have enough courage to go on defending his version of the truth. Because if Kostya Jashi was prepared to go this far, he was prepared to go farther. He wasn’t going to be like Andro; he wasn’t going to let Kostya Jashi break him.

And anyway, what was the problem? What was it about this film that was so forbidden? Was it really so very dangerous, as ground-breaking as Lana was trying to convince him it was? After all, it was only a graduation film. A somewhat provocative, daredevil, challenging look at a person’s life, captured on celluloid with modest means and using narrative techniques borrowed from other films.

Lana had helped create a mythology around it, if only within the Institute. Perhaps this was actually a very different opportunity for him: because a film no one had seen, one that even the public prosecutor was after, could retain its promise of genius for as long as no one found it and no one saw it. Perhaps there really was no way out of this situation now, other than to keep it hidden. Perhaps he wouldn’t gain his diploma, but with the right strategy he might instead gain an indestructible reputation. A reputation that in future would allow him to make the films he wanted to make, without Lana’s help and support and all that these entailed.

So he would stick to Lana’s plan: he would count on her to send the film into banishment somewhere it could not be found, and in doing so he would secure himself a future — one that involved some detours and crazy diversions, but which offered him exceptional prospects. Of course, it would be so much more bearable, so much greater, to believe that he was still engaged in a fight for his ideals, for Christine, for the things the world had denied him and he had snatched from its hands nonetheless, and that in doing so he was fearlessly overcoming all obstacles; a fight in which the roles of Good and Evil, Right and Wrong had already been assigned. Miqa Eristavi, avenger of his past, eternal lover, on one side; Kostya Jashi on the other.

Yes, he would follow this path, the path Lana had proposed. And he would allow her to go on believing that they were pursuing the same goals. But they weren’t. This, too, became clear to him that day.

*

Later, he would ask himself whether it was the unhappy turn his and Christine’s story had taken that had led him here. Was it in fact Christine’s age that had driven him into this woman’s arms? Would everything have been different if she had left the light on that night, when she took off her veil in front of him? Would he then finally have been cured of her? Instead, here he was, standing on the street in front of a woman, a stranger, who happened to be carrying his child. And it was then that he made the most momentous decision of his life.

‘Agreed. Take the reels out of the city; hide them. Take them up to the village. Take them to my father. But do it when he’s not there, otherwise he won’t let you … I’ll tell you where to hide them. I’ll go through with this, alone. I’ll see it through to the end.’

‘I knew I wasn’t wrong about you.’

And Lana, brimming with happiness, ran her hand over his head and tousled his hair.

*

‘He’s refusing, Stasia. He says he doesn’t have the film. I had a meeting with a lawyer today. She assumes there’s some other reason for this peculiar business. I simply don’t understand why they’re making such a fuss about such a ridiculous issue. The lawyer suspects that someone is behind these interrogations. That’s what she told me. You know I don’t even want to contemplate —’

‘Christine, please! What are you saying?’

Stasia pressed her hands to her back. She had spent the whole day giving orders to the workmen who were supposed to be covering the walls of her barn with mirrors. In a couple of days her dance hall would be finished, and then she would be ready to pass on Peter Vasilyev’s legacy. There would be a few village girls with whom to practise her beloved pirouettes and pas de chat, pas de basque, and pas de deux. She leaned against the kitchen wall and stretched her spine.

‘Could it be that Kostya is behind this whole —’

‘Christine, what on earth makes you suspect such a terrible thing? The boy has only himself to blame. Why doesn’t he just give them back the film, and then it’ll all be over? Kostya? No, you mustn’t even think it!’

‘Miqa had to go to yet another interrogation, Stasia. It’s not normal. I’m begging you, please find out.’

‘And I’m telling you: stop this nonsense and get him to hand in the film.’

‘At least consider for a moment the possibility that —’

‘He’s still your nephew. He adores you; you raised him, he’s like your own flesh and blood. Fine: I’ll talk to him again, all right? They can’t do anything to the boy. He hasn’t killed anyone. The times are different now … and he isn’t Andro.’

‘His girlfriend is pregnant. He’s going to be a father soon. They’re having a baby, Stasia.’

*

She summoned all her courage, got into her Zhiguli, and, for the first time since my birth, she drove to the city. She had still never been to Christine’s little apartment; she had been dreading this encounter all this time. But she had to face it now. If she did nothing, then one of these days she would burst, she would buckle beneath the weight of her own impotence.

Something was going on. She had sensed it immediately. The secret phone calls, and Stasia’s whispering whenever she called Christine. Kostya’s exaggerated show of activity. His uneasy expression. It was about Miqa, she was sure of it. She had pricked up her ears, and from the bits of information she was able to glean from scraps of her grandmother’s and father’s conversations she had soon put together a pretty accurate picture.

She had to intervene.

Christine flung open the door without asking who was there. She seemed to be expecting someone else. She froze, plucked at her black dress, which, as always, fitted her perfectly, and looked Elene up and down.

‘What are you doing here?’

Of course she hadn’t forgiven her. Of course not. It had been naive to hope for that.

‘I heard … about Miqa … and I want to help. I thought if you could tell me exactly what’s going on, I could talk to Papa and change his mind. Stasia won’t be able to do it alone.’

‘You — help? You’ve already helped enough. Oh, what the hell, come into my modest abode. I know you’re accustomed to better things, but I can offer you tea as well.’

*

Christine did in fact tell her about the whole situation; more than this, she voiced her suspicion that Kostya was behind the state’s excessive interest in Miqa. Elene sat staring into the black tea in disbelief, her cheek propped on her fist, desperately racking her brains. But before she could say anything, they heard the front door open and Miqa’s slow, heavy steps. He walked into the living room, where he paused for a moment in the doorway at the sight of Elene and gave Christine a quizzical look, as if considering beating a hasty retreat. She beckoned him over and he joined them at the table, but made no attempt to kiss Elene in greeting.

‘Did you call the Jashis?’ he called to Christine, who had gone to the kitchenette to warm up his lunch.

‘No, I came of my own accord,’ said Elene.

‘Aha. You thought: poor Miqa, I have to see with my own eyes just how deep in the shit he is?’

‘You have to give back the film,’ she said, not responding to his hostility.

‘Oh, and who asked for your opinion?’

A threatening ‘Miqa!’ came from the kitchen.

‘What? Why should I follow her advice?’

‘Because it isn’t her advice, it’s all our advice!’

Why couldn’t she just say: ‘Kostya has probably had my closest friends arrested, too. Kostya will take his revenge on you, and all because I was too much of a coward to distance myself from my false truth. A truth that — damn it, Miqa! — doesn’t exist, or a truth that I don’t know!’ Why had she come here? For this! To warn him about her father. Perhaps this was what it had been about all along? All her eavesdropping and spying: she believed her father capable of the worst and expected him to take things to the limit. Knowing all the while that she had given him permission to do so. She had caused Kostya to neutralise Miqail, Beqa, and, yes, above all Miqa, the eternal thorn in his side, in the belief that doing so would mean she, Elene, was out of danger.

Elene had wanted to cut herself off from him, to bite through the umbilical cord with her teeth, an umbilical cord that had bound her not to her mother but to him, and still did.

Why couldn’t she stand up and yell out what she was thinking so that the whole world could hear it: Yes, I’m the gunpowder in Kostya’s rifle. I am his right hand. I am the firing squad. I am his boss. I, I, I am his war, the war he is constantly fighting against the wrong enemy. It’s me. Yes, I am being punished; for a long time I thought punishment had passed me by, but I am being punished, so hard, so suitably; yes, really, suitably. Because everything I say turns into a bullet, a bullet for him to load into his gun. Kostya will pursue you to the limit. Not because you did something to me, but because I wanted you to do something to me. I always thought I had to punish my whole family for letting you have the life at their side that should have been mine, but it’s not true, it’s completely untrue, I’ve understood that, Miqa, I know it now. It was never about that. I wanted to punish you because you drove me away. Because you didn’t need me as I did you.

Because you didn’t go sniffing like a hound for traces of me when you returned to the house after the holidays, the house I had to leave again when you arrived. Because you had no need of me. How I hated your vain, poetry-infected, gloomy self-sufficiency! How I hated your melancholic passions that had nothing to do with me, that never involved me at all!

No, no, it wasn’t jealousy of the grown-ups that made me compete with you; it was jealousy of the grown-ups because they had you and I didn’t. Because they were around you and I wasn’t. Because you were here, and I was there.

I don’t know you, I don’t even know what kind of person you are. I don’t know why you let people destroy your belief in the world so easily. I don’t know whether you prefer raspberry or strawberry jam, Miqa, but I wanted to know that and many other things as well. But you always made it clear to me that I was unworthy of your dreams and wishes, that I didn’t deserve your affection. Yet I put up with it all, I left everything to you, I left my whole world behind for you and went away.

Why wasn’t it enough for you?

Why couldn’t you at least have pretended to me, that wretched afternoon, that you liked me — a little, just a tiny little bit? Why did you have to display all your scorn, all your disgust, with such brutality? Why did you have to make it so blatantly obvious that even when I was offered up to you, gift-wrapped, I still wasn’t worthy of your acceptance?

Tell me, admit it to me at last, yell it out: tell me how much you’ve hated me, all your life. How fervently you’ve wished me dead — totally, utterly annihilated! How hard you’ve tried all your life to suppress this hatred. To play the good, docile, perfect boy, the victim! Please, do me that favour, release me, say it to my face, do it, Miqa —

‘I want my child to be able to be proud of me one day!’

Miqa was arguing with Christine. Elene, who had been lost in thought, was suddenly wide awake.

‘Your child?’

‘Yes, my child!’ snapped Miqa defiantly.

‘I didn’t know … I’m sorry,’ she murmured.

‘How would you have known?’

‘Is it the woman from Mtskheta?’

Why did she feel so defenceless, so stupid? What had become of all her intentions?

‘The woman from Mtskheta? Yes, that’s the one. Her name’s Lana, by the way!’

‘Miqa, calm down, please. I won’t have you using that tone!’ Christine planted herself in front of him. His expression changed abruptly. Suddenly he was his old, obedient self, the melancholy, docile Miqa of his childhood. She put her arm around his shoulders, as if to remind him of who he was, what was at stake. What … Yes, this was precisely what was at stake. This round wooden table, where he had just sat down again, because she wanted him to; her butter biscuits, the black tea, not too hot, not too cold, with a slice of lemon. This life with her, this self-contained life with this old, veiled woman, stoically defying her age in her tight-fitting dress. Yes, this was what it came down to; but something had gone awry.

And once again Elene saw the absolute harmony between the two of them that had brought tears to her eyes all those years ago, in Christine’s old house on Vera Hill, when she had sat on the branch of a tree and secretly spied into Christine’s bedroom without being able, at the time, to understand what she saw. The way he had combed her hair, the way he had gazed at her, with such adoration. Wasn’t she too old to receive such looks? How scandalous, how provocative this picture had seemed to her then. And it had been precisely this intimacy, the self-assurance with which she put her arm around his shoulders, the knowledge of something that could not, must not, be named, that had brought the tears to her eyes.

‘I’m happy for you both.’

Elene’s voice was barely audible. All of a sudden she wanted to get away, to flee; she didn’t want to be at the mercy of these feelings any more, they were hardening into a lump in her throat. She didn’t want to know anything any more, didn’t want to look for any more answers. It would all be so much easier if she could accept the way things were and just carry on.

And yes, she should have said to him: ‘Flee, drop everything and get out of here, stay away from me, stay away from Christine, stay away from all that reminds you of my family, start all over again, start your own story, go, run, forget your film and the past and that afternoon, and think of your child, a child with another woman who shielded you from blows for which I was responsible — don’t ever look back again!’ But could she say it to him?

No: she would let him walk, fall, into the abyss. Because it still felt so good to see him wrestle with himself, with his inability to become what he wanted to be. Yes, my friend, we’ll walk this path to the end together, together, my Miqa! And all because it felt so good to see that he had not got what he wanted, either, when he ignored her pain and numbed his desires and pressed her body under his, and made clear to her with every second of it that she was not worth loving.