The party in the corner finally took notice of us, and one of them called out:
“Valiko, come join us!”
“Sorry, old man, I’m afraid I can’t,” said Valiko, laying his hand on his heart.
“Come on, just for a minute.”
“My apologies to all of you and to the lovely lady, but I’m afraid I can’t,” said Valiko, and backing away respectfully, he returned to our table.
Several minutes later the waitress appeared with an enormous plate of fresh scallions mixed with crimson radishes — the latter peeping through the green scallions like little red beasts. Along with the salad we received separate portions of lobio and bread.
“Don’t forget the mineral water, Lidochka,” said Valiko. And now beginning to relax, I suddenly realized how little I’d had to eat all day. We started off with the lobio, which was cold and unbelievably peppery, and then munched away at the radishes and scallions. Each time I bit into one of the spearlike scallions stems, it would spurt forth a spray of its sharp, pungent juice as if in self-defense.
The waitress reappeared with the mineral water and at the same time placed a bottle of wine on the table.
“Nothing doing,” I said firmly, putting the bottle of wine back on the tray.
“For God’s sake,” whispered Valiko, gazing at me with his clear blue eyes in which there was now a look of anxiety.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“They’re treating you,” said the waitress, casting a glance at the party in the corner.
As we followed her gaze, our eyes met those of the young man who had greeted Valiko. He was beaming proudly in our direction. Valiko nodded his thanks and shook his head in reproach, whereupon the young man modestly lowered his eyes. The waitress set the wine bottle back on the table and walked off with the empty tray.
“I’m not going to drink any,” I said.
“You don’t have to drink it, it can just stand there,” said Valiko.
We started eating again, but the wine seemed somehow to get in the way.
Valiko picked up the bottle of mineral water and asked meekly:
“May I pour you some mineral water?”
“Yes, mineral water’s okay,” I replied, feeling utterly ridiculous.
Having each downed a glass of mineral water, we went back to work on the lobio.
“It’s very spicy,” observed Valiko, noisily drawing in a mouthful of air.
“Yes, it is,” I agreed. The lobio did in fact set one’s mouth on fire.
“I wonder why the Russians don’t like peppers,” Valiko queried abstractly, and then reaching for the bottle of wine, he added: “Probably it’s the difference in climate.”
“Probably so,” I agreed, now watching to see what he would do next.
“You don’t have to drink it, just let it stand there,” said Valiko as he poured out some wine for both of us.
A subtle and fragrant aroma rose from our glasses. It was Isabella wine, a deep crimson in color like pomegranate juice. Valiko wiped his hands on his napkin, finished chewing a radish, and slowly reached for his glass.
“You don’t have to drink it, just have a taste,” he said, gazing at me with his clear blue eyes.
“I don’t want any,” I replied, feeling like an absolute idiot.
“May I dig up my father’s old bones and throw them to the dirty, stinking dogs, if you don’t raise your glass!” he exclaimed in Abkhazian and then abruptly broke off. His enormous blue eyes froze with horror at his own unheard-of sacrilege, and I myself was somewhat dumfounded by this blasphemous outburst.
“The old bones of my father… to the dirty dogs!” he recapitulated and then slumped over the table without a murmur. I grew alarmed.
Don’t worry, I thought to myself, you’re not going to get high on one bottle. All the more so since you have the advantage of knowing that he wants to get you drunk, while he doesn’t know that you know.
We were finishing off the last glass of wine and I still felt completely in control. No one was going to put anything over on me — and actually, Valiko was a nice fellow and everything was turning out quite all right.
The waitress came up with two shish kebabs sizzling on skewers.
“Bring them a bottle of wine from us, and a bar of chocolate for the lady,” ordered Valiko. Then with the leisurely finesse of a provincial gourmet he began freeing the still sizzling meat clinging to the metal skewers.
A friendly custom, I thought to myself and suddenly announced:
“Bring them two bottles and two bars of chocolate…”
“The guest said two bottles,” solemnly confirmed Valiko, and the waitress walked off.
A few minutes later the young man at the other table shook his head in reproach, whereupon Valiko modestly lowered his eyes. The young man then had two bottles of wine sent over to us, whereupon Valiko shook his head in reproach and waved an admonishing finger at him. The young man lowered his head with even greater modesty.
We raised our glasses several times and solemnly toasted our new friends, their old parents, and of course the blonde, who was such a lovely representative of a great people. And now as the rays of the setting sun beat through the window upon her back and glimmered in her hair, simultaneously her face, neck and very bare shoulders were bathed by the shower of compliments emanating from inside the room.
“Let’s drink to the goatibex,” suggested Valiko somewhat more intimately when it began to appear as if both sides had exhausted their supply of collective toasts.
“Okay, let’s drink to him,” I said. And we drank to him.
“A fine undertaking, to say the least,” said Valiko, and on his lips there appeared a faint smile, the significance of which I did not yet perceive.
“Let’s hope it’s successful,” I said.
“I hear the goatibex is beginning to catch on in Russia, too,” he added, the same faint smile still playing about his lips.
“Yes, slowly but surely,” I replied.
“It’s a matter of State significance,” observed Valiko, his eyes now burning with a mysterious blue glitter.
“Yes, it is,” I confirmed.
“I wonder what our enemies are saying about the goatibex,” he asked unexpectedly.
“They don’t seem to be saying anything yet,” I answered.
“Not yet,” he drawled emphatically. “There’s more to the goatibex than meets the eye,” he added after a moment’s reflection.
“There’s always more to everything than first meets the eye,” I said, trying to grasp what he was driving at.
“But I’ve got something specific in mind,” he said. Then with a piercing glance of his fiery blue eyes he quickly added: “Shall we drink a separate toast to the goatibex’s horns?”
“Okay, let’s,” I said, and we emptied our glasses.
But now for some reason Valiko grew sad. He put down his glass and dejectedly began toying with his shish kebab.
“I have a daughter,” he said, gazing up at me with sad eyes, “three years old.”
“A wonderful age,” I said, doing my best to support this domestic theme.
“She understands everything even though she’s only a little girl,” he added defensively.
“That’s very unusual,” I said, “you really are lucky, Valiko.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “I do everything I can for her. But don’t think I’m complaining — I’m happy to do it.”
“I understand,” I said, although by now I didn’t understand a thing.
“No, you don’t understand,” Valiko retorted.