“Now that’s what I call a brilliant association!” the girl retorted sarcastically.
“You’re too smart for your own good,” dolefully remarked the policeman without raising his voice. And he continued to sit there as immobile as ever, with the same sleepy look on his face.
When I had finished writing up my complaint, the policeman indicated with a glance that I should leave it on the table. Just at that moment the door opened at the back of the partitioned-off area and a tall, thickset man with slightly stooped shoulders entered the room, thoughtfully stroking his broad, handsome face with one hand.
“Well, here’s the captain,” the policeman exclaimed joyfully, now jumping up and yielding his seat to the captain.
“I wonder why we didn’t hear his car pulling up,” the girl remarked impudently and then turned once again toward the door.
“What’s the trouble?” asked the captain, taking his seat and gazing somberly at the girl.
“They were picked up wandering around without any papers,” reported the policeman in a loud, clear voice. “They were spotted on the shore at about four a.m. She claims that she didn’t want to wake up her landlady, and her escort’s staying at the other end of town.”
“Comrade captain,” the boy was about to begin, but the captain cut him short:
“You run and get your passport, and she can stay here as security.”
“But there aren’t any buses at this hour,” the boy objected.
“Never mind, young man, run along,” said the captain, now turning with a questioning glance toward me.
“Here’s his statement, comrade captain,” said the policeman, pointing to the table. The captain leaned forward and began reading my statement. The policeman who had escorted me to the station now stood at attention, ready to fill him in with any necessary details.
“Now don’t get upset, I’ll be right back,” the boy whispered to the girl and quickly departed. The girl made no reply.
Through the open windows came the scraping sound of the caretaker’s steadily approaching broom and the irrepressible warbling of birds. The captain’s lips moved slightly and, looking up at me, he asked:
“Do you have any identification?”
“It was war booty,” I replied, assuming that he was referring to the watch, “a gift from my uncle.”
“What’s your uncle got to do with it?” The captain asked with a frown. “Show me your passport.”
“Oh,” I said, handing him my passport.
“He was sleeping down by the shore,” interjected my policeman, “and after we woke him up, he said his watch had been stolen.”
“How strange,” said the captain, gazing at me with curiosity. “According to your statement you were waiting for the Zugdidi bus, and yet they found you sleeping down by the shore. Don’t tell me you were expecting the bus to come out of the sea?!”
The two policemen chuckled.
“The Zugdidi bus comes by at eleven in the evening, and we found him on the shore at six a.m.,” observed my escort, as if presenting some new challenge with which to test the captain’s ingenuity.
“Perhaps you were waiting for the return bus?” the captain suddenly surmised. One could tell that he was trying his best to make sense of my story and was suffering in the process.
“Yes, the return bus,” I said for no good reason, except perhaps to put the captain’s mind at rest.
“Well, that’s another matter,” said the captain and then, holding out my passport, he asked: “Where do you work?”
“I’m a reporter for Red Subtropics,” I replied, extending my hand to take the passport.
“Then why weren’t you staying at the hotel?” asked the captain. And now puzzled anew, he took back my passport and opened it for a second look. “This sort of thing makes a bad impression,” he commented, and clicking his tongue, he added: “What am I going to tell Avtandil Avtandilovich?”
Good Lord, I reflected, they all seem to know each other around here!
“Why do you have to tell him anything?” I asked. That was all I needed — to have the editor find out about my stolen watch! There would be all sorts of questions, suspicions — and in general, who wants anything to do with people who get into trouble?
“This does create a bad impression,” the captain declared thoughtfully. “You spend the night in our town and you lose your watch… What is Avtandil Avtandilovich going to think?”
“You know,” I said, “I think I may have left it at Walnut Springs.”
“Walnut Springs?” the captain gave a start.
“Yes, I was there on an assignment in connection with the goatibex.”
“Oh, I’ve heard, an interesting undertaking,” observed the captain, now listening attentively.
“I think I may have left my watch there.”
“Then we’ll call them up right away,” said the captain, his face brightening as he reached for the receiver.
“No, don’t bother!” I cried, taking a step forward.
“Aha,” said the captain, slapping his hands together. His face lit up with satisfaction at his own clever surmise. “Now I understand, they were making toasts…”
“Yes, that’s it, making toasts,” I confirmed.
“By the way, Vakhtang Bochua was out there too,” interjected my escort.
“So they were making toasts,” the captain went on with his explanation. “You ended up presenting your watch to one of them, and they presented you with a cigarette case,” he concluded, now beaming triumphantly in my direction.
“What cigarette case?” I asked, failing at first to see the connection.
“One of those silver ones,” the captain cheerfully elaborated.
“No, they didn’t give me anything in return,” I said.
“But they must have,” said the captain, amiably contradicting me. “Or at least they must have promised to give you something later on… But why are you standing? Have a seat.” And taking a package of Kazbek cigarettes from his pocket, he asked: “Do you smoke?”
“Yes. Thank you,” I replied, taking a cigarette. The captain gave me a light and then lit up his own cigarette.
At this point the policeman who had been standing behind the partition went out through the back door. My policeman continued to stand in place, though now partially supporting himself against the window sill.
“Last year I happened to be in Svanetia,”[8] said the captain, directing a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “The local police had a dinner in my honor; we ate and drank and afterwards they presented me with a deer. Now what on earth would I want with a live deer? On the other hand, to refuse it would have been considered a mortal insult. So I accepted their gift, promising to send them two cases of cartridges in return. And I did send them, as soon as I got home.”
“And you took the deer?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered. “I kept it at home for a week, and then my son took it off with him to school. ‘We’re going to make it into a goatibex,’ he tells me. ‘Fine,’ I tell him, ‘do whatever you want with it. There’s no way we can keep it at home.’ ”
The captain took a long draw on his cigarette. Good-natured complacency was written all over his broad, handsome face. I was glad that he had forgotten about my watch; I would have had a rough time explaining what had happened to Avtandil Avtandilovich.
“The Svans are excellent cooks,” the captain continued to reminisce, “but that arrack spoils everything.” He looked at me and frowned. “A thoroughly distasteful drink — although I suppose,” he added in a conciliatory tone, “it’s all a matter of what you’re used to.”
8
A district in northwest Georgia, inhabited by an ancient Caucasian people, the Svans. (Trans.)