The sounds slowly faded away, and then disappeared thoroughly.

In the morning, when the neighbors paid a usual visit to Gogia, they found him lying in his bed with the guitar in his hands. He had a broad smile on his face and seemed to be fast asleep.

Asleep indeed he was, with the pleasant, divine, eternal sleep.

2005

TEMUR

It was late in the evening. Temur was returning home from the hospital where he had visited his wounded friend. To be more precise, he was still standing in the corridor, waiting for the news. Time and again, he enquired the doctors coming out of the reanimation department:

“How is he? Is there any news? If you need something, just tell me and I’ll get anything. I’ll go by car and fetch anything!”

Then he went back to the people standing in groups. All of them were telling different versions. Still there were several details that coincided: Everyone admitted that Lado had been claiming something to some strangers at the party and they had a small argument. That was all they had witnessed.

Nevertheless, an hour later, someone called from the hospital informing Lado’s friends that he had been brought there badly wounded, and had to be operated on within an hour’s time. They also said he could hardly manage to give the phone number before he fainted.

Lado’s mother, Tamara, was standing in the corner with several of her son’s friends. She didn’t utter a single word. She was extremely pale and her eyes were hollow. Each time someone in a white overall passed by, she started to tremble. It was clear, she wanted to ask some questions, but she couldn’t, for she was afraid to hear bad news.

Temur went up to someone in a white overall again.

“What’s going on?”

“He lost a lot of blood. We need the blood of group two, rhesus negative.”

“Where can we get it?”

“At the blood transfusion station. We also need the physiological solution, and gentamicine. There is a risk of peritonitis.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m in my fifth year at the medical college, but I am an intern here, and I am on duty today.”

In forty minutes’ time everything had been already delivered.

The nurse said the operation was a success. Two bullets had been removed from the patient’s stomach. The only problem now was that of the peritonitis.

Temur was walking down the street. He could have taken a taxi, but he wanted to walk a little. He had a gun in his pocket.

Those were dangerous times...

“They came with the Shorty,” Temur recalled his friend Gio’s words. “So I can see them tomorrow,” he thought. “I’ll ask them what he has told them. Was it something so terrible as to kill him?”

He found himself at the front door of his house.

“How is he?” Temur’s mother asked him as soon as he entered.

“He’s better now. The only threat is peritonitis.

***

“Hi, Shorty!”

“Hi, Temur. How are you doing, man?” Shorty seemed a bit confused.

“Get into the car; I have a word with you.”

“Nice car. When did you buy it?”

“It isn’t mine.”

“I see...”

Shorty closed the door.

“Too hot, isn’t it? No air at all.”

“Who were those guys yesterday?”

“What guys?”

“Them that wounded my buddy, Lado.”

“O, they are nice guys, I tell you. They were drunk, you know, and your buddy should have left them alone.”

“I need to see them.”

“You’d better wait a little. When your buddy recovers, we shall settle the problem right away.”

“He has to survive first.”

“O, Yeah? Is he that bad?”

“Yeah. There is a threat of peritonitis.”

“Wow! God forbid!” Shorty said crossing himself.

“I need to see them today, Shorty!”

“No, no! You’d better wait for a while! The cops are aware of everything, you know; they are...”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Temura shouted and stopped the car abruptly. In a moment he took his TT out of his pocket and hit Shorty on his jaw.

Shorty screamed. And he immediately got another blow.

“Are you crazy?” he murmured.

His nose was broken. His mouth was full of blood and the fragments of his teeth.

“Sit still! Don’t move or I’ll kill you right on the spot!”

Shorty groaned searching for something in his mouth. Then he spat out some blood and broken teeth.

“Are you in mind? What have you done, idiot?” he murmured and immediately got a third blow. This time on his head.

“Tell me where they are, or you are a corpse!” Temur told him, aiming the gun at his temple.

“Inn Kiev street, near the park.”

Temur started his car. On the way he warned Shorty again:

“Be careful! Don’t do stupid things or you are a dead man!”

They stopped at a yard.

“Here?”

“Yeah.”

“Both?”

“Yeah... A friend of theirs lives here.”

“Call them and tell them to come out.” Temur gave his cell phone to Shorty. “Be careful, ass-hole, they mustn’t guess anything!”

Shorty dialed the number, trembling and looking at the gun.

“It’s me, Shorty... Yeah, it’s my buddy’s phone... Come down, both of you, we need to talk... Yeah, my voice is harsh because I have a sore throat... No way, it can’t wait.”

Temur took his phone, got out of the car and stood near the gate. Shorty stayed in the car. He was so scared that couldn’t even dare to move. Some time later there appeared a tall guy walking lazily, followed by his friend. When he saw Shorty, he waved his hand.

Temur raised his gun and shot three shots. The tall fell down at once; the other one managed to turn round, and he immediately got four bullets in his back. He, too, fell on his back and lay still.

Shorty was running down the street as fast as he could.

Temur started the car, drove upwards, then to the right and straight ahead. He was thinking about his buddy: “Now we need to prevent peritonitis!”

Those were very dangerous and ruthless times, indeed.

2005.

FAR AWAY, IN CARTAGENA

To the memory of Bidzina Kherkheulidze

Camillo Chaver was a tall, broad-shouldered, sun-tanned man.

He lived on a farm, Guapore, 50 kilometres from Bogotá.[5] It was a middle-sized farm, and his sons, Pepé and Miguel, helped him with the farm-work. They had a servant, Minelle, too; Namibian by origin.

He grew oat, and he had a lot of livestock, mainly cows and goats, and he owned good pastures.

He was extremely active. He woke everyone up very early in the morning, and he himself worked hardest of all. His horse was white, with huge brown spots. He used to ride it round the farm all day long. Nobody could have a free moment till evening. He even abolished siesta[6] – the oldest of the traditions. “You will have eternal siesta when you decease,” he used to say. He sold his bacon in Cartagena. He hated to go to Bogotá. It took him a week to get to Cartagena, but he still preferred going there. He was fascinated by this seaside town. He felt a sort of nostalgia towards it, for he had spent there a year and a half.

He liked everything in this port: the harbor, the tourists, the exotic fruit, and the liners from Cuba, Honduras and Panama. In the evening, one could see a lot of various people sitting in the cheap restaurants and cafés scattered all along the beach. Some were drinking mulled wine, some others – grog; the sailors preferred brandy. They got dead drunk, and could get to their vessels with great difficulty. Drunken brawls and fisticuffs were too usual. He himself liked the Portuguese wine best of all. It cleared his mind and he felt sort of exhilirated. Then he was searching for the brawls and fights himself. He even felt some kind of drive at those instances. He was an excellent fighter. And he scarcely bit the sand. He was always carrying magnum 44 with him, and a navaha – a huge Spanish jack-knife. But he would never use them. It was only once that he stabbed a giant boatswain between his ribs. After the fight, he discovered two big wounds on his left arm, but he didn’t suffer for a long time; a Jamaican whore killed his pain in the hotel “Maracaibo.”.