Why this belief in the rationality of things? Perhaps it is due to the fact that in childhood we still feel the throbbing of our mother’s blood which once flowed through our veins and nourished us. And since the world of our mother’s arms was always good to us, it is hardly surprising that we grow up believing in the goodness and rationality of this world. And how indeed could it be otherwise?
The best people, I think, are those who over the years have managed to retain this childhood faith in the world’s rationality. For it is this faith which provides man with passion and zeal in his struggle against the twin follies of cruelty and stupidity.
My grandfather’s house had a reputation for hospitality and was always filled with relatives and numerous other visitors — from various and sundry officials and district Party workers on down to transient shepherds overtaken by bad weather on their annual cattle drive to summer pastures. I myself saw such visitors by the hundreds.
My uncle owned five or six cows and some fifty goats. Most of these animals were registered in the name of some relative, usually a relative from the city. The number of animals which could be owned by a single individual had for some time been restricted by law, and in our part of the country this had resulted in a sudden and mysterious blossoming of fictitious gifts, sales, and purchases.
As far as I can remember, pigs were the only animal whose numbers were not officially restricted. Knowing that the eating of pork was strictly forbidden by Islamic law, the central authorities probably assumed that the Abkhazians would not be likely to accumulate excessive numbers of pigs.
Our peasants tried as best they could to save their animals, but despite all their efforts and the use of every possible stratagem the number of livestock in our region steadily dwindled with each passing year.
And now as I thought of these animals, I suddenly remembered the period during the war when I had stayed longest at my grandfather’s and for six months had had the job of tending my uncle’s goats. How strange, I reflected, that so much time has passed since then — I’ve finished school, the Institute, and am already on my second job — and yet here I am after all these years, once again about to come face to face with these same goats who, like myself, have come up in the world and are now transforming themselves into goatibexes.
I began to recall those long-forgotten days when I was still a boy and goats were still goats and not goatibexes. And as I thought back to this period in my life, one particular evening and its adventures came suddenly to mind.
The year was 1942, and I was living at my grandfather’s house in the mountains. The fear of bombings and, more important, the fear of starvation had driven me into this relatively quiet and well-nourished corner of Abkhazia.
Our home city had been bombed only twice, and probably the Germans had dropped on us the bombs that were meant for more important targets which had been too well protected for them to attack.
After the first bombing there was a mass exodus from the city. The coffeehouse orators sensibly suspended their endless political discussions and withdrew to the outlying villages where for the first time in their lives they began to appreciate the virtues of Abkhazian hominy grits.
The only people to remain in the city were those whose services were indispensable or who had nowhere to go. Since our family didn’t fit into either of these categories, we soon left town along with everyone else.
After prior consultation and deliberation our country relatives parceled us out among them, taking into account our individual needs and capacities.
As a confirmed urbanite my older brother wanted to stay with the relatives whose village lay closest to the city. He got his wish, but from there was soon drafted into the army.
My sister was sent to the family of a distant relative who for some reason or other — undoubtedly his wealth — had always been considered very close to us. As the smallest and least useful member of the family I was sent off to my uncle in the mountains. Mama stayed somewhere midway between us, at the house of her older sister.
At this time my uncle still owned some twenty goats and three sheep, and no sooner had I arrived and begun to get my bearings than I found myself their newly appointed keeper.
Slowly but surely I managed to gain control over this small, obstreperous herd. What united us was the hypnotic power of two age-old expressions: “Heyt!” and “Iyoh!” These words had numerous shades of meaning, depending on how one pronounced them. The goats understood these meanings very well, but sometimes when it was to their advantage, they would confuse them.
The variety of meanings was indeed impressive. For example, if one called out “Heyt! Heyt!” loud and clear, this meant: Graze on to your heart’s content, there’s nothing to be afraid of.
These same sounds could be pronounced in a pedantic and reproachful tone, in which case they meant: You can’t fool me, I can see where you’re off to — or something to this effect. If, on the other hand, one called out “Iyoh! Iyoh!” quickly and abruptly, this was to be interpreted: Danger! Come back!
At the sound of my voice the goats would generally look up, as if trying to figure out just what it was I expected of them this time.
They always grazed with a certain disdainful look on their faces, and at times I could not help being annoyed at the way in which they would carelessly discard one half-chewed branch, only to move greedily on to another. They were capricious and wasteful, whereas we humans had to hoard every crumb. It hardly seemed fair.
Tearing the leaves from the bushes, they would rise up on their hind legs and try to get at the youngest and tenderest leaves, which were usually the farthest from reach. At such moments there was something shamelessly impudent about them, perhaps because now, raised up on their hind legs, they resembled human beings. Much later when I saw depictions of satyrs (probably in the paintings of El Greco), it occurred to me that the artist was using these weird figures to convey the very essence of human shamelessness.
The goats loved to graze on steep, precipitous slopes in close proximity to a mountain stream. I’m convinced that the sound of water whetted their appetites, just as it does our own. And in this regard it would seem no accident that when traveling in the country, we humans usually stop to eat next to a brook or stream. Apart from our need for something to drink, the very sound of running water undoubtedly makes our food seem more succulent and tasty.
The sheep usually brought up the rear and would graze with their heads bent low, as if sniffing the grass. They preferred the open and flatter areas, where I had an easy time keeping an eye on them. If something happened to frighten them, however, they would run off so quickly that it would be impossible to stop them. Their stubby tails would smack against their buttocks as they ran, and this only frightened them all the more. Thus they would continue running at breakneck speed, urged on by each successive wave of fear and agitation. And when they could run no longer, they would finally take refuge in the nearest bushes. Here they would rest for a while, heaving and panting with their mouths thrown open in doglike fashion.
The goats chose to rest in the rockiest and most elevated spots and would lie down wherever they could find a clean and uncluttered piece of ground. The highest spot would generally be occupied by the oldest male, who had terrifying horns and was hoary with age — his yellowed hair hanging in tufts along his sides. One could see that he knew his role in life: he always moved slowly, his long astrologer’s beard swaying with an air of self-importance. And if in a moment of forgetfulness one of the younger males happened to usurp his place, he would calmly approach the young upstart and, without even deigning to look at him, push him away with a sidelong thrust of his horns.