chapter forty-four
I rush back to Gloria’s room. I knock over the bedside table.
“Come on, let’s go!” I say. “I’m taking you away from this hospital. Where’s your suitcase?”
Gloria shakes her head. She doesn’t have a suitcase. What would she put inside it? I wonder. Except for the clothes provided by the hospital, she owns nothing.
“Fine!” I say. “Even better!”
I open the small closet, where a sweater and a pair of pants are hung, and I throw them on the bed.
“We’ll go to the French Embassy. They’ll give you a visa, you’ll see. They’ll understand that it’s urgent. I’m a French citizen, don’t forget! I have an official passport! I’m free, and no one will keep me from taking you back with me to Paris!”
I get hold of a pair of shoes at the bottom of the closet while I keep talking fast, shaking from the excitement.
“You aren’t staying one more second in this room!” I tell her. “These doctors are useless! That’s why your health is declining! I’ll take care of you, you’ll see! You’ll feel better! Because the truth is that you’re as sturdy as the trees!”
With the closet empty, I start to fold the clothes, but Gloria’s eyes catch mine. She gives me a look that forces me to be quiet. She does not move from her chair. She smiles with a mysterious sweetness, just like the Mona Lisa.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
Gloria pats the bedspread with her hand, as if saying, “Sit down and stop this foolish agitation.” But I’m obsessed; I want to take her far away from here, to keep her far from death. I’ve waited almost eight years, and I haven’t moved heaven and earth to abandon her now.
“We’ll talk on the plane,” I say. “I’m going to find a bag for your things.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Gloria whispers.
And her smile wavers.
Suddenly I’m drained of energy. I go sit on the bed, close to her.
It isn’t as hot now, as the sun is coming through the window on a slant. I can hear cars honking in the street.
Gloria and I look at one another for a long time, and I try to decipher what it is that she can’t tell me. Almost crying, I recognize that it would be foolish to leave Georgia.
“OK, you’re right, we’ll wait,” I say. “There’s no hurry after all.”
Gloria smiles again now. She seems relieved.
“Would you like to go out for a short walk?” I suggest.
It is afternoon, and Gloria walks slowly. We wander aimlessly, under sculpted balconies and laundry hung out to dry in windows. Dogs pass by, sniffing the walls. I realize that Gloria stops often to regain her strength.
After a while we sit under a tree and share the bottle of water that I brought from the hotel. There is so much to say that I don’t know where to begin.
We remain silent, our eyes directed to the river at the bottom of the hill. Birds are singing, insects are buzzing; if it weren’t for the shells of buildings destroyed by the war, you’d think the Caucasus was a peaceful region.
“When we lived in the Complex, was it here?” I ask. “I mean in Tbilisi?”
“You remember?” Gloria says, surprised.
“Of course! I remember everything from there on.”
I describe to her my first memory, with the laundry and Sergei, who shaved my head.
“And before that?” she asks.
“Before that you told me everything. About Vassili, Zemzem, the Terrible Accident …”
Gloria sighs. Her eyes search for something in the landscape, then settle back on me.
“You’ve grown so much, Koumaïl. Are you happy in France?” she asks.
How do I answer this question? In a way, yes, I am happy. I have a roof over my head; I am never famished or cold; I get financial help to complete my studies at the university; I often walk in Montmartre; I drink cool beer on café terraces with friends; I laugh; I go to the movies when I have enough money; and above all, there is the love that I share with Prudence. But a profound sadness has stayed with me each day of my life, an inconsolable sorrow that feels like a hole where my heart should be.
I look down to pick a blade of grass and roll it between my fingers.
“I didn’t find my mother, you know,” I say.
When I look up again, Gloria is staring at me. Her expression and the pallor of her face scare me.
“Do you want to go back?” I say, worried.
She motions that no, she does not want to do that. She leans back against the tree trunk, lost in thought or contemplating the sun playing in the leaves.
“It’s time that I tell you your story, Koumaïl,” she says finally.
“My story? You told it to me a million times. I know it by heart! Don’t tire yourself.”
“Tst, tsk, tsk. It’s a new version.”
“Oh?”
“Come here, like in the old times. I’ve been waiting nearly eight years for this moment.”
I’ve never been able to disobey Gloria. So I stretch my legs out on the grass and I put my head on her stomach. In spite of her weight loss, her middle is still comfortable, and it soothes me to feel Gloria’s breath on my face.
“You have to promise me something,” she says before she begins.
“What?”
I promise as she strokes my forehead. Then I close my eyes to concentrate on her voice.
I don’t say a word. I listen to my story. The new version.