“Central Asia.”
“Why not stick around with me? You’ll see how much we can make in a day.”
“Sorry, I’ve made up my mind. The police here are getting on my nerves.’
“Well I want to get to Sukhumi to find my girlfriend. Let’s go together.”
I agree out of curiosity. Sukhumi is in the right direction.
After we’ve finished the wine we go to work. Blind Pew directs me to the centre of town and tells me to stop outside the department store. Taking off his cap and putting a sombre expression on what is left of his face, he begins to sing:
A crowd gathers to hear the sad song of the boy sentenced to death by his own father. I walk from one street corner to the other keeping a lookout for the cops. From time to time Blind Pew tips his takings into his pocket so that people do not think he is making too much. When he points his index finger downwards it means it is time for a smoke-break. Finally Pew says: “Greed killed the friar, let’s stop now.”
We fortify ourselves with wine and count our takings. A Moscow diva would envy us. In two hours we have made thirty roubles.
“But you only sing one song,” I complain.
“It’s the only one I can remember.”
We buy some bottles for the night. I take Pew home to the basement where I’ve been dossing but this turns out to be a mistake. His snores not only keep me awake but they must have awoken everyone on the floor above. In the early hours of the morning the police arrive and haul us off. Luckily they give us nothing worse than a beating. We have 24 hours to leave Sochi.
Reaching the station, we walk along a platform and force open the pneumatic doors of a local train. We lie down in an empty carriage and Pew is soon snoring again. A couple of hours later the train jerks and begins to move, taking us towards Sukhumi. I check the adjoining carriage before returning to give Pew the all-clear. He stumbles down the carriage, singing a song I taught him the night before, one I remember from childhood.
My song is a success: people laugh and give Pew money and a glass of chacha.[32] I make no sign that I know him.
By the time we reach Sukhumi, Pew is rejoicing over the money he’s made. He asks me to accompany him further, explaining he’ll forget the song by tomorrow morning and will need me to teach it to him again.
I decline. To me, begging is degrading, and besides, I don’t want to be supported by Pew. When we alight at Sukhumi he directs me to the bazaar. A group of alkashi has gathered by the entrance. One of them, a bloated, ragged woman, gives a screech. Detaching herself from her comrades she runs up and flings her arms around Pew. Together they stagger off to the station to work the train again.
I wander off to try my luck in town. I’ve never been to Georgia before and I feel out of place. People are better-dressed than in Russia and I sense they’re looking down their noses at me. I spend the day wandering through the town drinking nothing but Turkish coffee. The streets are full of men kissing each other and talking across every doorway.[33] Many people have photos of their dead pinned on their lapels and most women wear mourning. Two men begin talking behind me and I step to one side, thinking a fight is about to break out. Cars career like rabid dogs, paying little attention to lights. Drivers stop to chat to friends, ignoring the angry queues behind them
I spend the money Blind Pew left me and then wander back to the bazaar. A market woman beckons me over and asks me to help carry her baskets of peppers. Happy to earn a bit of cash, I begin hauling baskets over to her stall.
“If we see your ugly face again you’ll spend the rest of your life working to buy medicine,” a voice growls in my ear.
I turn round. A group of Kurds are glaring at me. There is nothing left to do but get the hell out of here.
I haven’t gone far before a pot-bellied policemen hisses through gold teeth: “You, Vassya! Come here!”
This is the end of my wandering, I think.
The police station is piled to the ceiling with confiscated mandarins. Three other vagrants are loading them into cars. The police order me to help them. When we’re done the cops give us each five roubles and a bottle of chacha. I walk out of the station shaking my head in bewilderment. “I won’t be able to tell anyone about this,” I say to one of the other tramps. “They’ll think I’m a compulsive liar. Russian police would sooner hang themselves with their own belts than behave like that.”
A dark man approaches me. “Want a job Vassya?”[34]
“What sort of job?”
“Building a fence — three or four days.”
“How much?”
“Ten roubles a day and drink.”
“Where d’you want me to go?”
“To the village. I’ll drive you there and back.” The man points to a car.
I haven’t much choice so I go along. It’s dark when we arrive at the man’s village. He takes me to his farm and directs me to a barn where bunches of bay leaves and eucalyptus are drying. He warns me not to smoke: a spark could send the whole place up in flames. I lie down and sleep in the sweet-scented air.
For three days I dig holes, set posts into them and string up barbed wire. The wire scratches and tears my hands even through gloves. An old man lives in the house with three huge dogs. In the evening he puts out flagons of wine and chacha for me. I don’t touch the chacha for I know that once I start on it I’ll never finish the work.
While I am stretching out the wire I see a Russian working in a neighbouring field. He comes over.
“I’ve been here two months,” he says. They give me all the chacha I want but they never seem to have any money to pay me. Each morning I have to work for my hair-of-the-dog. Then I finish the bottle in the evening. I can’t seem to find a way out.”
The old man sees us talking and calls me over: “Police coming,” he says, making signs that I’ll be arrested.
“Okay, give me my money and I’ll leave.”
“No monny, my son bring monny tomorrow.”
I almost cry with rage. I’ve ripped up my hands for nothing. I know that if I leave without my pay I’ll resent it for the rest of my life. The old man stands watching me, surrounded by his dogs. His eyes laugh at me. There is nothing I can say. Unexpectedly even to myself I go into the barn, grab my things and cry out: “If I don’t see my money in five minutes I’ll burn the place down !”
I show him the box of matches in my fist.
The old man immediately finds the money. Fearing his dogs, I grab a pitchfork, only throwing it away after I have left the farm far behind me.
34
Vassya is a generic name other nationalities give to Russians. It has the slightly derogatory connotation of ‘simple village lad.