any coal to boil water in the samovar.
Gloria takes my hand. “Soon we’ll leave the mountains, Koumaïl,” she tells me. “In the valley you’ll see a river. At the end of the river, there is an estuary that opens onto a large sea and a city that opens onto a port. The air will be sweet and you’ll see palm trees, Koumaïl. Over there we’ll find people to help us. I’ll manage, I promise.”
I move on, trying to imagine this improbable city from where we will board a boat to go to other, just as improbable cities. But something nags at me.
“At the border they’ll see that you’re not French,” I say.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk! And why would they?”
“You can’t even speak French.”
“So what? You can’t either, Monsieur Blaise! Yet you’re French, aren’t you?”
When I make a list of my French vocabulary, I know only a few words in the language of my country of origin: “
Helpmehelpmeplease.
” Gloria’s argument leaves me speechless. So I keep on walking and try to believe that my feet are somebody else’s.
* * *
We finally reach the river, then the estuary and the port of Sukhumi. Beyond the palm trees, cargo vessels and military ships adorned with cannons lie hull after hull.
Night falls over buildings in ruin. It rains. The docks are littered with debris but also with men, women, and children who have nowhere to go and who sleep here and there, taking shelter under tarps. I am so tired that I am ready to sleep under the rain with the dogs and the garbage.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Gloria tells me. “There is better for us tonight! Come on.”
She drags me through backyards and smelly streets up to the entrance of a bar, the Matachine.
The room is dark, with wobbly tables and cigar-smoking men who stare at us. Gloria pushes me toward a bench and asks me to wait for her.
As Gloria heads toward the bar, I make myself cozy and put my head down against the sticky armrest. I can’t hear what she says to the man who is opening the beer bottles. They talk a long time, while I fall into a deep sleep.
When Gloria wakes me up, she smiles broadly.
“Everything is arranged,” she tells me. “We’ll board a boat in a few days. For the time being, we’re going to settle in upstairs.”
Her finger points to the ceiling of the Matachine.
We climb a stiff ladder up to a narrow trapdoor, and Gloria breathes with difficulty because of her weight. Finally we put our gear in a sort of cupboard in the attic: our new refuge.
The place is dusty, cluttered with boxes, but it has a dormer window. Gloria unfolds two camping beds right under it. This way, she tells me, we will see the stars and it will be wonderful.
I lie down. I look up. The sky is pitch-black.
“Be patient,” Gloria murmurs. “There are stars behind the clouds, always. Don’t fall asleep, Koumaïl, watch the sky.”
Drops of rain crash onto the glass, and Gloria coughs a little. I wrap myself in Dobromir’s blanket, sheltered, struggling to keep my eyes open. I try to remember the names of the stars that Mrs. Hanska chose from her old book: Betelgeuse, Aldebaran, Merak, Vega.…
Suddenly, thousands of sparkles illuminate the sky.
“There they are!” I say.
But Gloria doesn’t answer me. She’s fast asleep.
The points of light disappear, and I hear the humming of engines and then muffled noises that shake the walls of the Matachine.
Those are not stars.
I hide my head under the blanket and close my eyes. Far away a bomb explodes in the port of Sukhumi.
chapter eighteen
IT’S early in the day still and I don’t know where we are going. Gloria drags me along demolished streets, where there are mangy dogs and people pulling carts. She explains to me that Sukhumi was a nice town before the war, a seaside resort where people came on vacation to soak up the sun and enjoy the beaches. In summer, under the palms trees and the flowering tangerine trees, people used to eat ice cream, barefoot in sandals. It’s the pure
Gloria takes my hand. “Soon we’ll leave the mountains, Koumaïl,” she tells me. “In the valley you’ll see a river. At the end of the river, there is an estuary that opens onto a large sea and a city that opens onto a port. The air will be sweet and you’ll see palm trees, Koumaïl. Over there we’ll find people to help us. I’ll manage, I promise.”
I move on, trying to imagine this improbable city from where we will board a boat to go to other, just as improbable cities. But something nags at me.
“At the border they’ll see that you’re not French,” I say.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk! And why would they?”
“You can’t even speak French.”
“So what? You can’t either, Monsieur Blaise! Yet you’re French, aren’t you?”
When I make a list of my French vocabulary, I know only a few words in the language of my country of origin: “
Helpmehelpmeplease.
” Gloria’s argument leaves me speechless. So I keep on walking and try to believe that my feet are somebody else’s.
* * *
We finally reach the river, then the estuary and the port of Sukhumi. Beyond the palm trees, cargo vessels and military ships adorned with cannons lie hull after hull.
Night falls over buildings in ruin. It rains. The docks are littered with debris but also with men, women, and children who have nowhere to go and who sleep here and there, taking shelter under tarps. I am so tired that I am ready to sleep under the rain with the dogs and the garbage.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Gloria tells me. “There is better for us tonight! Come on.”
She drags me through backyards and smelly streets up to the entrance of a bar, the Matachine.
The room is dark, with wobbly tables and cigar-smoking men who stare at us. Gloria pushes me toward a bench and asks me to wait for her.
As Gloria heads toward the bar, I make myself cozy and put my head down against the sticky armrest. I can’t hear what she says to the man who is opening the beer bottles. They talk a long time, while I fall into a deep sleep.
When Gloria wakes me up, she smiles broadly.
“Everything is arranged,” she tells me. “We’ll board a boat in a few days. For the time being, we’re going to settle in upstairs.”
Her finger points to the ceiling of the Matachine.
We climb a stiff ladder up to a narrow trapdoor, and Gloria breathes with difficulty because of her weight. Finally we put our gear in a sort of cupboard in the attic: our new refuge.
The place is dusty, cluttered with boxes, but it has a dormer window. Gloria unfolds two camping beds right under it. This way, she tells me, we will see the stars and it will be wonderful.
I lie down. I look up. The sky is pitch-black.
“Be patient,” Gloria murmurs. “There are stars behind the clouds, always. Don’t fall asleep, Koumaïl, watch the sky.”
Drops of rain crash onto the glass, and Gloria coughs a little. I wrap myself in Dobromir’s blanket, sheltered, struggling to keep my eyes open. I try to remember the names of the stars that Mrs. Hanska chose from her old book: Betelgeuse, Aldebaran, Merak, Vega.…
Suddenly, thousands of sparkles illuminate the sky.
“There they are!” I say.
But Gloria doesn’t answer me. She’s fast asleep.
The points of light disappear, and I hear the humming of engines and then muffled noises that shake the walls of the Matachine.
Those are not stars.
I hide my head under the blanket and close my eyes. Far away a bomb explodes in the port of Sukhumi.
chapter eighteen
IT’S early in the day still and I don’t know where we are going. Gloria drags me along demolished streets, where there are mangy dogs and people pulling carts. She explains to me that Sukhumi was a nice town before the war, a seaside resort where people came on vacation to soak up the sun and enjoy the beaches. In summer, under the palms trees and the flowering tangerine trees, people used to eat ice cream, barefoot in sandals. It’s the pure
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