“Yes, I suppose so,” I replied.
“But that Isabella they have at Walnut Springs is as strong as bull’s blood…”
Yours isn’t bad either, I thought to myself.
Suddenly beginning to chuckle, the captain asked: “Did you get to meet that sleepy agronomist?”
“Yes, I did,” I replied. “Why does he sleep so much?”
“He’s quite a character,” said the captain, chuckling again. “It’s some sort of sickness he has. But despite all his sleeping, he’s still our number-one tea specialist. There’s no one in the district who can match him.”
“Yes, their tea fields are really magnificent,” I said, suddenly calling to mind the picture of Gogola bending over the green, luxuriant bushes.
“Last year there was a bit of excitement out at their kolkhoz. Someone walked off with their safe.”
“Their safe?”
“Yes, their safe,” said the captain. “I went out there myself to investigate. Someone managed to steal it, but they couldn’t get it open. The sleepy agronomist helped us find it. He’s a very smart fellow… But you know, Isabella really is a treacherous wine,” the captain continued, not wanting to digress too far from his main topic. “You gulp it down like lemonade and only later does it begin to hit you.”
He looked at me, then at the girl, and said to her:
“You’re free to go, young lady, only next time see that you don’t stay out so late.”
“I’ll wait for my friend here,” she said, turning her head brusquely toward the door.
“You can wait for him out in the yard. It’s a nice morning — the birds are singing,” said the captain and then added sternly: “And in the future don’t let yourself be picked up by casual strangers. All right now, get along with you!”
The girl went out without saying a word. The captain nodded in her direction and remarked:
“They’re offended when we take precautionary measures, and yet later on they themselves come running in to complain: ‘He raped me! He robbed me!’ Who he is or where he’s staying, she doesn’t have the slightest idea. And as to how she happened to be with him, she won’t say a word.” The captain turned to me with an offended look in his eyes.
“I suppose they’re too young to know any better,” I said.
“That’s just the point,” said the captain.
Out in the yard the birds were chirping away for all they were worth, and now the scraping of the caretaker’s broom could be heard right outside the front entrance.
“Kostya,” said the captain, turning to my escort, “go on out and water the front lawn and the sidewalk before it gets hot.”
“Yes, sir! Comrade captain,” replied the policeman.
“And tomorrow you’ll go to the circus,” added the captain, his words bringing the policeman to a sudden halt by the door.
“Yes, sir! Comrade captain,” the policeman repeated joyfully and then walked out.
“What circus?” I asked without stopping to reflect that this might be some sort of code word and, if so, my question would not be appreciated.
“The circus has arrived in town,” replied the captain matter-of-factly, “and we’re rewarding some of our best men by assigning them guard duty there.”
“Aha,” I nodded in comprehension.
“He’s a good man — smart and hard-working,” said the captain, glancing in the direction of the door. “Twenty-three years of service and now he’s even building himself a house.”
“Well, I guess I’ll be on my way too,” I said, rising.
“What’s your hurry?” asked the captain, and glancing down at his watch he declared: “The Zugdidi bus isn’t due in for another hour and forty-three minutes.”
I sat down again.
“But do you know what goes best with Isabella?” he asked, glancing at me with good-natured cunning.
“Shish kebab,” I replied.
“I beg your pardon, dear comrade,” objected the captain with obvious satisfaction. And now, having apparently concluded that I was an amateur who would have to be taken thoroughly in hand, he came out from behind his partition.
“Isabella should be served with stew meat and adzhika.[9] Especially meat from the loin — that’s where you get your chops,” he explained, slapping himself on the back. “But the leg isn’t bad either,” he added, hesitating somewhat, as if he wanted above all to be fair or in any case did not want to be accused of any culinary bias.
“Meat served with adzhika makes you thirsty,” said the captain, now halting in front of me. “You may not even feel like drinking any more, but your body demands it!” he added, joyfully flinging up his hands as if to say: there’s nothing you can do about it, once your body demands it.
The captain resumed his pacing.
“But white wine doesn’t go well with meat,” he suddenly cautioned, halting and looking anxiously in my direction.
“What does it go well with?” I asked eagerly.
“With fish,” he replied, “Goatfish,” the captain bent back one finger, “horse mackerel, mullet, or a fresh-water fish — mountain trout, for instance. Mm-m-m,” murmured the captain with satisfaction. “And all you need with the fish is damson sauce and some greens — nothing else.” And grimacing at the mere thought of any other side dishes or appetizers, he mentally brushed them aside with an energetic sweep of his hand.
The captain and I continued talking for a while until finally, when I was convinced that his thoughts had wandered sufficiently far afield from my watch, I shook his hand and said good-bye. But just as I was heading for the door, he called out:
“Here’s your statement; take it with you.”
He handed me the statement, and then apparently noticing that I didn’t enjoy being reminded of my missing watch, he added:
“Don’t worry, nothing’s going to come of it. The authorities regard gift giving as a harmless local custom. It’s quite acceptable in this part of the country.”
After this short legal briefing I said good-bye to him once again and finally left the building.
The freshly watered front lawn of the police station lay sparkling under the still cool morning sun. The policeman was energetically applying his hose to a young apple tree. Whenever a jet of water hit the tree, there would be a hollow rustling sound and a mighty quiver of gratitude would pass through its leaves and branches. Then from the still trembling leaves the water would come flying forth in a rainbow-colored spray.
The girl was sitting under the mulberry tree, keeping an eye on the front gate as she awaited her sweetheart’s return.
Out on the street I tore up my statement and threw it into a refuse container. I just barely made my bus and spent the entire return trip outlining my future article on the goatibex of Walnut Springs. It occurred to me that my grief over the loss of my watch would inject a note of pathos into my article, and this thought somewhat consoled me.
VI
I decided to tell everyone at home that my watch had been stolen from my hotel room. My uncle took the news very badly — which rather surprised me since I had no idea he would still remember the present he had given me so many years ago. I should add that my uncle was reputed to be one of the city’s best taxi drivers, and about two days after my return he pulled up in front of our building with a cab full of passengers. Leaving his passengers in the cab, he came inside and began questioning me:
“Well, how did it happen?”
“I was sharing a room with someone and when I got up in the morning, both the man and my watch were gone,” I explained sadly.
“Well, what did he look like?” asked my uncle, already thirsting for vengeance.