Once a goat happened to disappear from the herd. I wore myself out, running from bush to bush, tearing my clothes on the thorns, and crying myself hoarse. And all to no avail; the goat was nowhere to be found. Later on, as we were returning home, I just happened to look up, and there she was — perched on the thick branch of a wild persimmon tree. Somehow she had managed to clamber up its crooked trunk. Our eyes met and she stared straight at me, but with no sign of recognition. Obviously she had no intention of getting down. I finally pelted her with a stone, and only then did she gracefully jump down and go running up to the herd.
I think goats are the most cunning of all four-legged creatures. I had only to let my mind wander a moment and sometimes they would vanish without a trace, as if swallowed up by the white stones, ferns, and walnut thickets. And how hot and frightened I would become as I ran off in pursuit of them. Lizards would dart like tiny flashes of greening lightning across the narrow, crackling path, and sometimes even a snake would appear at my feet. I would take off like a shot, and all along the bottom of the foot which had just missed stepping on the snake, I would feel the awful sensation of its cold, resilient body. I would keep on running for a long time, my legs still tingling with the giddy and almost exhilarating sensation of fear.
And when I could run no longer, how strange it was to stop and listen to the murmur of the bushes, wondering if perhaps this was where they had hidden; how strange to listen to the rustling of the grasshoppers, to the singing of the larks in the distant, mighty blue, or to the voice of a chance wayfarer passing along the country road which was hidden from view. And how strange to listen to the slow, strong beat of my heart as I breathed in the pungent odor of vegetation wilted by the sun. Oh, the sweet languor of a still summer day!
In good weather I would lie on the grass in the shade of a large alder tree, listening to the familiar drone of our small training planes as they flew over the mountains to where the fighting was going on.
Once as I was tending my uncle’s herd, one of these planes came flying over the nearest ridge with a panic-stricken roar. It plummeted like a stone into the depths of the Kodor Valley and only at the very last minute managed to right itself. Then, without gaining any altitude it continued onward to the coast. Through every nerve of my body I could feel the almost human terror with which it had crossed over the ridge, apparently in a desperate attempt to save itself from a German fighter-bomber. With uncanny speed its shadow had skimmed across the meadow right past me, grazed a tobacco plantation and then, seconds later, could be seen passing far below along the Kodor Delta.
Every once in a while a German plane would fly over at a very high altitude. It could be recognized by its elusive wail which had something in common with the whining of a malarial mosquito. Usually when an enemy plane approached the city, our antiaircraft guns would begin to open fire, and all around it shells would explode in flowerlike clusters. But the plane would pass through them, one and all, as if protected by some magic spell. In fact, not once during the entire course of the war did I ever see one of these planes put out of action.
One of my relatives who had gone to the city to sell some pigs once arrived back with the news that my brother had been wounded. He was lying in a hospital in Baku and apparently could hardly wait for Mama’s arrival. We were all very upset by the news and felt that we must get in touch with Mama as quickly as possible. Since it turned out that I was the only one who could be spared for the trip, I immediately began to make ready.
After the women had filled me up on cheese and hominy grits and Grandfather had provided me with one of his walking sticks, I finally set off, though by now it was already late in the day and the sun was hanging low in the sky, no higher than the treetops. I had all but forgotten the way, or, rather, the exact location of Uncle Meksut’s house where my mother was staying, but I refused to listen to any directions. I was afraid they might change their minds about letting me go.
As best I could remember, I had first to walk through the forest which ran along the crest of the mountain and then to take the loggers’ road which led down from the mountain and eventually reached Uncle Meksut’s village.
Upon entering the forest, I felt as if I had suddenly plunged into a mountain stream. The warm summer day was left behind, and I made my way quickly along the path, breathing in the clean, damp coolness of the forest and listening to the vaguely disquieting rustle of the treetops. And the deeper I penetrated into the woods, the more briskly and energetically I would tap my walking stick against the firmly resilient, root-covered earth.
Out of the corner of my eye I was able to take in the beauty of my surroundings: the charming and unexpected glades covered with bright, downy grass; the silver-gray beeches with their mighty trunks; and the thick chestnut trees whose bases were heaped with last year’s reddish-brown leaves. How I would have like to lie down on these leaves and rest my head on the tree’s huge, moss-covered roots! In the clearings between the trees I would occasionally catch sight of the smoky-green valley and beyond it the sea, suspended between earth and sky like a mirage. Night was beginning to fall.
Suddenly from around a bend in the path there appeared two young girls. They seemed both frightened and pleased to see me. I recognized them as being from the same village, though in this setting there was something strange and unfamiliar about them — something shy and fawnlike. Their heads were lowered and they spoke in hushed, almost apologetic tones. One of them had been carrying her shoes in a bag and now was obviously embarrassed by her bare feet. She stood there scratching one foot with the other, as if trying to conceal at least one of them.
Gradually the girls’ embarrassment communicated itself to me. Unable to think of anything to talk about, I quickly said good-bye. They nodded in farewell and continued quietly, even stealthily, on their way.
Soon afterwards I caught sight of the reddish-yellow road which led to Uncle Meksut’s village. The road lay before me through the darkening trees and from a distance looked like a mountain stream. Happy at the thought of being able to walk on level ground, I quickly started down from the ridge, using my walking stick as a partial brake to avoid crashing into the dusky rhododendron bushes.
I almost fell onto the road. Yet despite the fact that my legs were covered with sweat and trembling from the strain, I immediately felt exhilarated by the smell of gasoline and of road dust, warm and stagnant at the end of the day. Here once again was that peculiarly city smell which had always excited me and now made me suddenly aware of how homesick I was. And although from here it was even farther to the city than from my grandfather’s village, I nonetheless began to imagine that this country road would take me straight into town.
I walked along in the twilight, taking note of the tire tracks beneath my feet and rejoicing whenever I came upon a particularly distinct ribbed pattern. As I continued on my way, the road gradually became lighter, thanks to the enormous amber moon which was beginning to climb out from behind a jagged strip of forest.
During my summers up in the mountains I had spent many an evening gazing at the moon. It was supposed to be inhabited by a shepherd with a herd of white goats, but hard as I tried, I was never able to make out either the shepherd or his herd. Apparently one had to have seen them from earliest childhood. But all I saw when I gazed up at the moon’s cold disk were some jagged, rock-hewn mountains. These mountains always made me feel sad, perhaps because they were so terribly far away and at the same time so similar to our own mountains here on earth.