The goats ran along the edge of the fence, pounding the ground with their hoofs and raising a trail of dust behind them. As they ran — sometimes spreading out, at other times bunching together — the goatibex would follow right behind, charging furiously with his horns. Every once in a while he would suddenly stop short in order to choose a better angle of attack. Then, after briefly scrutinizing them with his pink eyes, he would charge forward, scattering the poor animals all over the pen with thrusts of his horns.
“He hates them!” exclaimed the chairman once again, clicking his tongue ecstatically.
“Princess Tamara herself[2] wouldn’t be good enough for him!” shouted the driver from the middle of the pen where he stood enveloped in clouds of dust, like a matador in an arena.
“A fine undertaking, but not for our climate!” shouted the chairman, trying to make himself heard over the stamping and bleating of the goats.
The goatibex grew more and more ferocious, and the goats kept careening around the pen, sometimes converging, at other times scattering in different directions. Finally one of them managed to jump over the fence into the larger pen. The others went hurtling after her, but in their terror they miscalculated the height and fell back onto the ground. Once again they were forced to resume their circular flight around the pen.
“That’s enough!” shouted the chairman in Abkhazian. “We’re not going to let that swine mutilate our goats.”
“I’d be happy to roast and devour that animal at the funeral of the man who dreamed up this whole business!” shouted the driver in Abkhazian as he kicked open the gate into the larger pen. The goats rushed toward the gate, but only succeeded in blocking it as they climbed all over each other, bleating in terror. Without losing any momentum the goatibex made several flying attacks on the mass of writhing bodies, ramming them as best he could through the narrow passageway into the larger pen.
It was several minutes before the driver was able to chase him away, and for some time afterwards the goatibex was so keyed up that he kept running around the pen like an angry bull.
“Well, now we can go,” said the little girl.
“He sure gave those goats a beating, and all by himself, too!” the little boy announced to his companion. And with that they were off, their tanned and dusty feet padding noiselessly along the dirt road.
We got into the car and drove back to the kolkhoz office. Valiko pulled up in the shade of the walnut tree and we all got out except for the agronomist, who remained dozing inside.
The two old men were still sitting in their former spot, while up ahead next to a brand-new car stood Vakhtang Bochua, sporting a spanking-white suit and a rosy, good-natured smile. Catching sight of me, he comically spread out his arms as if preparing for an embrace.
“So the prodigal son has returned,” he exclaimed, “and is welcomed here in the shade of the ancient walnut tree by Vakhtang Bochua and an assemblage of village elders. Bow down and kiss the hem of my Circassian caftan, scoundrel!” he added, beaming with sunny vitality. He was accompanied by a young man who followed his every movement with undisguised admiration.
Suddenly I remembered that he might start speaking to me in Abkhazian and, seizing him by the arm, I drew him aside.
“What’s this, my friend, conspiring already?” he asked in eager anticipation.
“Would you pretend that I don’t understand Abkhazian,” I said in a low voice, “there’s been a stupid misunderstanding.”
“I get it,” said Vakhtang, “you’ve come to uncover the sinister plots being hatched by the enemies of the goatibex. Well, don’t worry, after my lecture goatibexation is going to proceed full speed ahead in the village of Walnut Springs — that I can guarantee,” he declared, getting carried away as usual. “Hmm, goatibexation — that’s not a bad term,… so don’t try stealing it from me before I have a chance to use it.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “only just keep quiet about my being Abkhazian.”
“Yours truly knows how to keep quiet, though it doesn’t come easily,” he assured me as we started back toward the chairman.
“I hope my lecture will awaken the creative powers of your kolkhoz, even if it doesn’t succeed in awakening your agronomist,” said Vakhtang to the chairman, at the same time chuckling and winking in my direction.
“This is, of course, an interesting undertaking, Comrade Vakhtang,” said the chairman respectfully.
“Which is just what I intend to prove,” said Vakhtang.
“What’s your connection with all this?” I asked. “The last I heard, your field was history.”
“Exactly,” exclaimed Vakhtang, “and it’s my job to consider the historical aspects of the question.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, let me explain,” he replied with a broad sweep of his hand. “What has been the fate of the mountain ibex down through the ages? He’s always been the victim of feudal hunters and the idle scions of the nobility. They tried to exterminate him, but the proud animal refused to submit. He kept retreating farther and farther up the high and inaccessible slopes of the Caucasus, though in his heart he always longed to return to our fertile Abkhazian valleys.”
“Oh, come off it!” I said.
“To continue:” he went on, patting himself on the stomach and obviously delighted at his own resourcefulness. “And what has been the traditional role of our plain and unpretentious Abkhazian goat? She has always been the mainstay of our poorest peasantry.”
The two old men were listening respectfully to Vakhtang’s speech though they obviously didn’t understand a word of it. The one with the staff had even forgotten about his hole and was sitting in rapt attention with one ear bent slightly forward in order to catch Vakhtang’s every word.
“He’s got quite a way with words,” said the one with the stick.
“Maybe he’s one of them radio fellows,” suggested the one with the staff.
“… But she, our humble goat,” Vakhtang was continuing, “dreamed of a better fate, or to put it more precisely: she dreamed of an encounter with the ibex… And now, thanks to the efforts of some of our talented specialists (and Abkhazia has always been rich in talent), the mountain ibex has finally encountered our humble domestic goat — plain and unpretentious to be sure, but all the more charming for that.”
I blocked my ears.
“Apparently he’s been reminded of something unpleasant, see how he’s stopped up his ears,” said the old man with the stick.
“Probably he’s cursing himself for not being able to cure the goatibex,” added the old man with the staff. “Why, up in the mountains I used to kill those goatibexes by the hundreds, and now people are cursing themselves over the loss of a single one of them.”
“Well, I guess these modern doctors have their problems too,” said the old man with the stick.
“… And it is precisely to the intimate details of this encounter that my lecture will be devoted,” concluded Vakhtang, now taking out his handkerchief and mopping his perspiring brow.
At this point several disheveled young men walked up to the chairman. They were clearly city types and turned out to be the electricians who had come to install power lines in the village. Right away they launched into an interminably long argument with the chairman. It seemed that some aspect of their work had been omitted from the cost estimate, and now they refused to go back to work until the estimate was revised. The chairman was trying to convince them that this was no reason to walk off the job.
2
A Caucasian maiden of such legendary beauty that even the devil was haunted by her charms. She is the heroine of Lermontov’s poem