So I returned to Pyatigorsk and they gave me a place to stay some ways from the center, in a sanatorium at the foot of the Mashuk (the highest part of the town). I had a French window and a little balcony that looked out on the long bare ridge of the Goriatchaya Gora, with its Chinese pavilion and a few trees, and then the plain and the volcanoes behind it, ranged in tiers in the haze. If I turned around and leaned backward, I could see a wedge of the Mashuk over the roof, crossed by a cloud that seemed to be moving almost at my level. It had rained during the night and the air smelled good and fresh. After going to the AOK to introduce myself to the Ic, Oberst von Gilsa, and his colleagues, I went out for a walk. A long paved lane rises from the center and follows the side of the mountain; behind the monument to Lenin, you have to climb some wide steep steps, then, past some basins, between lines of young oak and fragrant pine trees, the slope grows gentler. I passed the Lermontov Sanatorium, where von Kleist and his staff were staying; my quarters were set a little farther back, in a separate wing, right up against the mountain, now almost completely hidden by clouds. Farther up, the lane widened into a road that skirts round the Mashuk to connect a string of sanatoriums; there I veered off toward the little pavilion called the Aeolian Harp, from which one has a broad view of the plain to the south, scattered with otherworldly mounds, one volcano and then another and then another, extinct, peaceful. To the right, the sun drew gleams from the metal roofs of the houses, scattered in thick greenery; and farther on, in the distance, clouds were forming, masking the peaks of the Caucasus. A cheerful voice rose up behind me: “Aue! Have you been here a long time?” I turned around: Voss was approaching, smiling, beneath the trees. I shook his hand warmly. “I’ve just arrived. I’ve been appointed liaison officer to the AOK.”—“Oh, excellent! I’m at the AOK too. Have you eaten yet?”—“Not yet.”—“Come with me, then. There’s a good café just down below.” He set off on a narrow stone path cut into the rock and I followed him. Below, framing the tip of the long ravine that separates the Mashuk from the Goriatchaya Gora, lay a long columned gallery made of pink granite, decorated in an Italian style both ponderous and frivolous. “That’s the Academic Gallery,” Voss said.—“Oh!” I exclaimed, very excited, “but that’s the old Elisabeth Gallery! This is where Pechorin saw Princess Mary for the first time.” Voss burst out laughing: “So you know Lermontov? Everyone here is reading him.”—“Of course! A Hero of Our Time was my favorite book, at one time.” The path had brought us to the level of the gallery, built to shelter a sulfur spring. Some crippled soldiers, pale and slow, were strolling or sitting on benches, facing the long hollow that opens up toward the city; a Russian gardener was weeding the tulip and red carnation beds along the grand staircase that descends toward Kirov Street, at the bottom of the depression. The copper roofs of the spas nestled against the Goriatchaya Gora, rising above the trees, glittered in the sunlight. Beyond the ridge you could only make out one of the volcanoes. “Are you coming?” said Voss.—“Just a minute.” I entered the gallery to look at the spring, but I was disappointed: the room was bare and empty, and the water was pouring from an ordinary faucet. “The café is in the back,” said Voss. He passed under the arch that separates the left wing of the gallery from the central building; behind, the wall joined the rock to form a wide alcove, where they had placed a few tables and some stools. We sat down and a pretty young girl appeared through a door. Voss exchanged a few words with her in Russian. “There isn’t any shashlik today. But they have Kiev cutlets.”—“That’s perfect.”—“Do you want some water from the spring or a beer?”—“I think I’d rather have a beer. Is it cold?”—“Cold enough. But I warn you, it’s not German beer.” I lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall of the gallery. It was pleasantly cool; water streamed down the rock, two little brightly colored birds were pecking at the ground. “So you like Pyatigorsk, then?” Voss asked me. I smiled, I was happy to see him here. “I haven’t seen much yet,” I said.—“If you like Lermontov, the city is a veritable pilgrimage. The Soviets created a nice little museum in his house. When you have an afternoon free, we’ll go see it.”—“Gladly. Do you know where the location of the duel is?”—“Pechorin’s or Lermontov’s?”—“Lermontov’s.”—“Behind Mashuk. There’s a hideous monument, of course. And just imagine: we’ve even found one of his descendants.” I laughed: “Not possible.”—“Yes, yes. A Frau Evgenia Akimovna Shan-Girei. She is very old. The general had a pension allocated to her, larger than the one she had under the Soviets.”—“Did she know him?”—“You’ve got to be kidding. The Russians were just preparing to celebrate the centenary of his death the day of our invasion. Frau Shan-Girei was born ten or fifteen years later, in the fifties, I think.” The waitress returned with two dishes and some silverware. The “cutlets” were in fact chicken rolls, stuffed with melted butter and breaded, and accompanied by a fricassee of wild mushrooms with garlic. “This is delicious. And even the beer isn’t too bad.”—“I told you, didn’t I? I come here whenever I can. It’s never crowded.” I ate without talking, deeply content. “You have a lot of work?” I finally asked him.—“Let’s say that I have some free time for my research. Last month I looted the Pushkin library in Krasnodar and found some very interesting things. They had a lot of books about the Cossacks, but I also unearthed some Caucasian grammar books and some pretty rare monographs by Troubetskoy. I still have to go to Cherkessk, I’m sure they’ll have some books on the Circassians and the Karachai. My dream, though, is to find an Ubykh who still knows his language. But for now, not a chance. Otherwise, I write leaflets for the AOK.”—“What kind of leaflets?”—“Propaganda leaflets. They scatter them over the mountains by plane. I did one in Karachai, Kabardian, and Balkar, consulting the locals, of course, that was very funny: Mountain people—Before, you had everything, but Soviet power took it away from you! Welcome your German brothers who have flown like eagles over the mountains to free you! Et cetera.” I chuckled along with him. “I’ve also made some passes that we’re sending to the partisans to encourage them to switch sides. I wrote that we’d welcome them as soyuzniki in the general fight against Judeo-Bolshevism. The Jews among them must be having a good laugh. These propuska are valid until the end of the war.” The girl cleared the dishes and brought us some Turkish coffee. “They have everything here!” I exclaimed.—“Oh, yes. The markets are open, there’s even food for sale in the stores.”—“It’s not like in the Ukraine.”—“No. And with a little luck, it won’t be.”—“What do you mean?”—“Oh, some things might be changing.” We paid the bill and went back through the arch. The wounded soldiers were still strolling in front of the gallery, drinking their water in little sips. “Does that really help?” I asked Voss, pointing at a glass.—“The region has a reputation. You know that people came to take the waters here long before the Russians. Have you ever heard of Ibn Battuta?”—“The Arab traveler? I know the name.”—“He came through here, around 1375. He was in the Crimea, with the Tatars, where he had gotten married on the way. The Tatars were still living in large nomadic camps, cities on wheels made of tents on enormous wagons, with mosques and shops. Every year in the summer, when it began to get too warm in the Crimea, the Nogai Khan, with his entire city on the march, crossed the isthmus of Perekop and came as far as here. Ibn Battuta describes the place quite precisely, and praises the medicinal virtues of the sulfur water. He calls the site Bish or Besh Dagh, which, like Pyatigorsk in Russian, means ‘the five mountains.’” I laughed with surprise: “And what became of Ibn Battuta?”—“Afterward? He continued on, through Daghestan and Afghanistan, and ended up in India. He was a qadi in Delhi for a long time, and served Mohammed Tughluq, the paranoid sultan, for seven years before falling into disgrace. Then he was a qadi in the Maldives, and he even went as far as Ceylon, Indonesia, and China. And then he went home, to Morocco, to write his book before he died.”