Sailing Through My Memories

Unrequited love led to the tragedy… The day before his “departure,” we met in the institute corridor, and Stepik suddenly suggested we go to Yerevan for a football match. If only I could have known that this was the straw Stepa was trying to grasp. But I already had a family, and how could I just, out of the blue, hop on a train from Tbilisi to Yerevan? The next day, Stepik was gone. The Kura River became his last refuge, the last thing he looked upon, and whatever he was thinking — the water carried it away. I don’t want to dwell on how he left — without posturing, not for show, quietly, without lengthy suicide notes or accusations. I knew the girl, and I knew the words that fell from her lips when Stepik confessed his feelings. I don’t want to repeat them, but I would like to say to all girls: when someone confesses their love to you — especially someone with a “defect” — they are so defenseless and vulnerable that any careless phrase or mockery can lead to tragedy. Be tolerant! A careless word can cost a life.

Secondary School No. 56 was located in the prestigious Vake district, inhabited mostly by the nomenklatura — now the elite. There were three parallel classes; two had forty students each, while the third — mine — had sixteen. As in all elite districts, there were also “not-quite-elite” residents. Therefore, unofficially, my class consisted mostly of the children of those “not-quites.” As children, it didn’t seem to concern us, though it was strange to see two overcrowded classes and one half-empty. But the Bitkashis, Bidamirchis, Bitbunovs, Depperschmidts, Yakunins, Kabadzhans, Kazaryans, Manukyans, Sienkos, Asoyans, and Ayvazyans had to study somewhere.

If my class stood out for its lack of “eliteness,” it certainly made up for it in daring and mischief! Your humble servant, having completed the two-year “boarding school course,” was naturally in the front ranks of the instigators.

I studied easily and effortlessly, mostly getting “fives” (A’s) and… “ones” (F’s). If I hadn’t studied a lesson and was called upon, I simply wouldn’t stand up to answer at all. I could have gone to the board and bluffed my way to a “three,” but that would mean admitting I had studied and only mastered it at a mediocre level — my pride wouldn’t allow it. I felt no trembling awe toward the teachers; as someone “returning from the front,” I believed respect had to be earned through knowledge. I would simply say I hadn’t studied and receive my well-deserved “one.” Later, I’d stack a few “fives” on top of it, and everything would be fine.

The teachers didn’t worry about my knowledge, but my behavior caused them considerable problems! During math tests, I usually solved all four variants at once, and the whole class would get “fives,” even those who didn’t know the multiplication table. In all my years of school, I attended a Georgian language lesson only once — how I regret that today! The Georgian teacher, Shota Anisimovich, mocked my pronunciation, and after that, nothing could lure me back to his lessons. I had “twos” in my report card for four quarters, and a dash for the year-end grade. Since (unofficially) you couldn’t be held back a year in a Russian school because of Georgian, I ended up with no grade for the subject in my diploma at all. “Shatalo” (playing truant) was a sacred thing; usually the whole class would head to the “Kazbegi” cinema, located at the crossroads of three schools. Collective raids were common; since there were almost no viewers except schoolkids, they would simply stop the film, turn on the lights, and sort the audience by school. The only salvation was to pretend you belonged to a different school.

Among my classmates, I had no nickname, but among the teachers, it was “The Bloodsucker.” Some teachers adored me, others hated me, but they could do nothing. What could they do? The “hooligan” was an honor student (except for Georgian) and regularly defended the school’s honor at all sorts of Olympiads — be it performing arts, mathematics, or technical drawing.

A Little Digression into the Performing Arts

Back in the boarding school, a classmate named Tityayeva and I were supposed to read the fable The Wolf and the Lamb at a holiday concert. On the day of the show, “The Lamb” fell ill! Bella Mikhailovna — a Russian woman of Jewish descent who believed the boarding school routine had stifled some great artist within her — was in charge of the concert. Wearing a “Duty” armband, she informed me in the deep, chesty voice of Ranevskaya: — My little one, I’m sorry, but without the lamb, it’s impossible!

No, that was unfair. The stage was the only bright stroke on the joyless canvas of the boarding school. I knew the whole fable by heart, and in rehearsals, I had internally played both parts. Imagine Bella Mikhailovna’s surprise when I asked her not to cancel the act, saying I would read for both characters. I demonstrated it on the spot. She literally fell off her chair laughing.

I read the fable alone at the concert. It was a triumph! One moment I was growling as the Wolf, the next I was jumping to the side and squeaking as the Lamb. Everyone realized it was an impromptu performance and cheered twice as loud. I was incredibly happy and, naturally, realized — I am an actor!

When I arrived at the new school, I tried to continue my acting career, but alas, there was no drama club. However, in singing class, upon hearing my voice — which was very low for a child — I was immediately invited to join the choir. I agreed, of course. As I wrote before, my admission to music school had failed due to a mundane lack of “ear,” but they didn’t know that, and I didn’t tell them. Usually, those who lack an ear for music compensate with a love for singing, especially in a group, closing their eyes in pleasure. I was no exception; if God hadn’t given me an ear, He certainly hadn’t shortchanged me in vocal power. I sang with abandon — not only louder than everyone else but faster, usually finishing half a verse before the rest of the choir. When the choirmaster realized I was a disaster for the group, he decided to “correct” his mistake by suggesting I just move my mouth silently. He didn’t know me well. I quit the choir, and my grandmother was stunned: — With a voice like that, you weren’t right for the choir?

She found “my” song — The Buchenwald Alarm. Minimum melody, maximum bass. For a week, she and I practiced to the record player (Grandma actually found the record in a store) under the guidance of our neighbor Maro, an opera lover who wore gloves even while cooking in the corridor. I not only got myself included in the “Political Song” concert program but managed to win a certificate. Grandmother told me then: — Yurochka, in our time, it’s not how you sing that matters, but what you sing!

So, I didn’t leave the choir because I lacked an ear, but because I wasn’t appreciated! Grandma was thrilled!

Then there were sketches like “The Blotter,” “The Mischief-Maker,” and others; everyone laughed, but I didn’t. And suddenly, Yuri Entin (not the famous songwriter) arrived and opened a drama club at the school. It was a feast for the soul! I played Karabanov from The Pedagogical Poem and other heroes with total devotion. The role of Karabanov became the school’s calling card. We performed the play at many military bases. Entin later came from Moscow and tried to convince me to drop out of the Polytechnic Institute in my second year, not to waste my talent, and to apply to the Shchukin School.

Later, I performed in one of the folk theaters in Tbilisi, but Grandma considered those theaters “dens of iniquity.” She thought it was too early for me to dive headlong into debauchery. If only she had known my later adventures — perhaps there would have been one more actor in the world.

My grandparents never attended a single parent-teacher meeting. Grandma was convinced that certificates for her grandson should be delivered directly to the house, and Grandfather only recognized one type of meeting — Party meetings. And so my school years rolled on: nailing drawing instructor Petrosyan’s galoshes to the podium; pouring acid on the chemistry teacher’s chair; writing wall newspapers with “disappearing ink” (I read somewhere it was made with ammonia). Actually, only some letters disappeared, and what remained is not worth writing here, as it was pure profanity. But I was somehow “uninvolved” because when the newspaper was first hung in its glass frame, everything looked perfect.

One evening, I propped the classroom door shut from the inside with a row of desks, wedging them against the opposite wall, and slid down the drainpipe from the second floor. In the morning, it was impossible to get into the class. There was no lock on the door, so everyone was convinced someone was inside holding it shut. A roll call began in the corridor to find out who was barricaded in. Imagine — someone was actually absent! The whole class spent a long time trying to persuade him to open up, then threatened him with expulsion, then promised forgiveness — all in vain! By the third lesson, we were sent home, and people stood guard at the door for a long time to see who would come out! In the evening, they got a long ladder and looked in through the window — then they understood. The culprit was identified instantly, but my awards from the school Olympiads outweighed the crime!

I could sabotage a math lesson by starting to prove that the teacher was solving the problem incorrectly on the board and that there was a shorter way — the whole hour would pass in debate! In literature class, they were afraid to call me to the board because I might read the “right” poets but the “wrong” poems. Rhymes with profanity were recited just as loudly and expressively as poems on the death of a poet!

Sometimes I was just too lazy to go to school — a sort of “Russian blues.” Grandfather, if it were up to him, would have insisted, but Grandma, my angel, would say her famous line: — Let the child sleep; it’s no big deal. He can become a professor one day later. On those days, it was practically a holiday in the teachers’ room, and my absences usually weren’t even recorded!

Overall, the boarding school played its part in making it very difficult to influence me with standard pedagogical methods. They couldn’t expel me — I was an honor student with no police record — just a “malicious prankster” who couldn’t be forced, only asked, not to do this or that! In short, I was a handful!

Beyond the School Walls

School, school, school — clearly, we all came from there. But what was there besides this standard institution? What did I breathe and what interested me outside its walls? Many things!

Now, from the height of my years, I can say for sure whether it was good or not that my interests were determined only by my own whims — that the pointing finger of adults did not loom over me. They respected me as an individual and considered me independent enough to make my own choices. I wasn’t led by the hand to extracurricular clubs, and no one zealously monitored my successes or failures. Probably, they should have. Children almost always take the path of least resistance. Knowledge and skills that require persistence, monotony, and hard work — where the elements of play and entertainment are absent — are usually not loved. Children avoid them like the devil avoids incense. Yet, it is these very skills that later form the foundation upon which a talented dilettante grows into a real professional!

And although I believe children should be given maximum independence, parents are obligated to compensate for a child’s lack of life experience — not from the height of personal ambition, but by subtly catching not only the child’s abilities and inclinations but, if possible, the trends and demands of the time! Two subjects my eldest son studied under my vigilant, compulsory supervision: English and computers (skills I lacked due to laziness and circumstances). Now my eldest son is in the USA, working with computers. My youngest is a “special fruit” with a character even more unmanageable than mine and a mind that is sometimes frightening. To waste this child’s potential merely on self-assertion would be unpardonable. But here, unexpected difficulties intervened, caused by the situation in the country — difficulties that didn’t exist back in the Union. Overcoming them sometimes didn’t depend on us at all.

“Tarzan” and the Sea Devil

Since I lived near the Physical Education Institute, I tried so many sports sections it’s easier to say what I didn’t do. Tennis, swimming, track and field, weightlifting, wrestling, football… and I was among the best in everything, except perhaps football; juggling the ball with my feet was difficult, and I remained only a fan for life. But I swam well; I was on the underwater swimming team, which even got me exempted from final school exams — I went to the USSR Youth Championship. I was physically well-developed; it’s no wonder my nickname among friends since childhood was “Tarzan.”

In the summer after the 9th grade, I was in Sukhumi for training camp with the Georgian underwater swimming team. There, my older friends “opened my eyes” to that alluring and, at the time, unknown side of life: women. It all happened as romantically as it did comically. There’s no need to describe the way I strutted across the beach with my scuba tank and fins past pretty girls. I saw myself as an “Amphibian Man,” whistling the song about the sea devil from the movie. I thought all the girls were staring at me in enchantment, and if I only wanted to… but there was no time, training and all that — no time for women!

So, one day, the older guys decided to enlighten me. They secretly talked one of the “workers of beach pleasures” into giving me a “basic training course” without me knowing it was a setup. They really wanted to see “Romeo and Juliet” performed by a virgin and a prostitute.

The next day, I “picked up” a pretty girl named Dasha on the beach, and of course, I strutted around like a peacock, seeing the “envious” looks of the older guys! In principle, I might not have ventured further than spreading my tail feathers, but one of our swimmers said he had talked to the guys and they were giving up the bungalow for the evening. The path to retreat was cut off!

I realized how “charming” and “attractive” I was to women the moment I mentioned going back to my place. A “passionate glint” appeared in Dasha’s eyes, and a languid “Of course” escaped her lips. How I regretted that the guys couldn’t see and hear this — and most importantly, if I told them later, they wouldn’t believe me! On the way, I feverishly rehearsed scenes in which I seduced her, looking like a real Casanova. But looking at Dasha, something nagged at my soul, and I thought: — Maybe I should just call it off…

However, I seduced Dasha surprisingly quickly. It seemed to me she didn’t even have time to recover before I lightning-fast and technically “laid” her in bed. I don’t really remember charging the “pillbox,” and only at the end, having “finished my fire,” did I see a row of satisfied, smiling heads in the gap of the doorway. That’s when I realized who was seducing whom, but the pleasure wasn’t diminished by the realization. And from the look in Dasha’s eyes, I knew — there had been no misfire!

The most pleasant surprise was when Dasha came to visit the next evening and asked the guys to go for a walk for an hour or two! This time, Dasha locked the door herself.

And away we went! The further polishing of my first experience took place at the tourist base and the dormitory of the Physical Education Institute, located right next to my house — and, it seems to me, not without success. Of course, I was no Alain Delon, but I was certainly no Quasimodo either. Well-built, looking older than my years, with a silver tongue, completely spontaneous, reasonably gallant, and with a low, raspy, confident voice that acted hypnotically.

I never deceived my “passions,” never pretended to be in love, never promised marriage, and was never too insistent. I always kept the situation under control. I was a cat — soft, fluffy, someone you wanted to pet. My purring not only lulled my companions but robbed them of all will, desire to resist, and, apparently, a realistic assessment of what was happening. My shamelessly devouring, eternally smiling eyes looked right through their clothes; in them, women saw an unobtrusive, warm admiration that made them believe in their own irresistibility. My rhythmically heaving chest and the nervous reverberation of my voice betrayed a desire to prolong that feeling as long as possible. Most importantly — I completely lacked sexual selfishness. My natural sexuality was focused mainly on providing pleasure, on bringing the partner to that state where all conventions are erased, where one forgets where, with whom, and why — when, amidst the unreality of the moment, the incredible significance of what has happened is suddenly understood, followed by a total emptying of consciousness, an all-consuming tenderness in the soul, a surge of warmth in the body, and… a complete absence of legs!

By my final year of school, I was already an experienced heartbreaker. Many young (and not so young) teachers could no longer withstand the direct, frank gaze I played with like a circus strongman plays with weights… and eventually, I played too far.

My Universities

One of my “crushes” was studying at the university in the faculty of cybernetics. Since I liked both the girl and electronics, it was obvious that I would apply to TSU (Tbilisi State University) for cybernetics. The faculty had only existed for two years; while a year prior no one knew about it and getting in was easy, by the time I applied, it was absolute madness. No, there weren’t crowds like at the history faculty, where there were twenty-five people per spot. Here, there were only two people per spot, but there were only ten spots in total. The problem was the caliber of the applicants! It was every dean’s dream — eleven gold medalists. Good lord, where did they find them? There were even two applicants named Korolev among them! Add to that three people on “quotas” (from enterprises), two returning from the army (also outside the general competition), and seven unrecognized geniuses! I wasn’t afraid of exams — not then, and not later, though lord knows how many of them I faced.

Out of the medalists, eight received straight “fives” (A’s), which meant only two spots remained. Before the final exam, those two spots were contested by three “quota” students (who only needed to avoid failing), two “army” guys, and four ordinary mortals without privileges who already had two “fives” each! You can imagine the “slaughter” that took place during the third exam — oral physics. It was only later I realized why physics was oral: you couldn’t appeal the results of an oral exam. I learned that on my own skin. Oral physics turned into a swim through “sulfuric acid,” where they cut people down left and right, indiscriminately. Everyone understood that even if only the quota students got “threes,” there would still be an over-enrollment.

I remembered this exam for the rest of my life. After all my answers, the examiner told me that my response was excellent, but “today that doesn’t matter.” He gave me a “four” and, with a smirk, remarked: — Today everyone lost. They could have at least added five more spots so that talent wouldn’t be left overboard.

After three exams, only one applicant had straight “fives,” and everyone knew exactly whose relative he was. I filed a protest against the “four” in physics. Naturally, it wasn’t accepted since it was an oral exam, but the Dean of Cybernetics was a real Dean — the kind who fought for a good student. He asked for my documents and, seeing that I was a member of the Georgian national underwater swimming team, wrote a request to the University Rector — Academician Vekua. He asked for the admission of a national team member who had received only one “four” and hadn’t passed the general competition. The Academician left a note on the request that read: “It is no wonder he got only one ‘four,’ as athletes work with their legs, but in an institute, headwork is what matters.” His verdict — REJECTED.

Truly — “Execution impossible, pardon”! The following year, I entered the Polytechnic Institute (GPI).

Military Training, or “Profanity with a Sequel”

In the days of the USSR, higher education institutions had military departments — factories for “inflated” lieutenants. There was such a department in my GPI as well. Starting from the second year, we spent one day a week there. Since we were electrical engineers, our military profession was signalmen, and the department was known in military parlance as the “Signals Cycle.” Eight hours a day, men from different groups of the same faculty and year gnawed on the armor of military science. A civilian army, masculine camaraderie, “boots-and-leather” humor — a student is a godsend for a major.

I won’t bore the reader too much, but I must dwell on the atmosphere and regulations that reigned there. Without describing certain moments of my coexistence with this department, the cause-and-effect of the summer training camps after graduation would be impossible to understand.

— Twenty-year-old guys with “Beatle manes,” healthy humor, appetites, libidos, and an unhealthy attitude toward military service — all “hee-hees” and “ha-has” — find themselves at the military department. There, it is explained to them that every Tuesday for eight hours, they are in the army. That there are no “faculties” here, only “cycles,” and everyone is a “comrade.” However, the realization that those with stars on their shoulders aren’t exactly “comrades” to those without them came through the standard army concept of “from lunch until the fence.” It turned out this wasn’t a pun but a concrete task, achievable only when you realize that a “comrade” is not a friend at all, but something between the concepts of “Father” and “Your Mother.” And “The Lord is not in heaven, but here, in the office of the Department Head” — in the person of General Zamtaradze!

I was ill-suited for the role of a temporary soldier, neither in manners nor in spirit. A “semi-box” haircut, a green tie, all that “Attention! At ease! Good health, sir! Requesting permission to speak!” — in short, a “fish day” in my personal life was not for me! Since hair doesn’t grow back in the other six days of the week, I naturally didn’t cut it. I didn’t write out the notes on radio receivers and transmitters because I already knew it all (from the Radio Club at the Pioneers’ Palace, UF6KAF at DOSAAF, and a year working as a radio technician at a research institute). In a word, I was somewhere between a dissident and a saboteur. Given my restless character and extensive school experience, one could guess whose lightning rod the bolt would strike!

They tried to make me cut my hair. Colonel Berezin once lent me three rubles for a haircut; instead of going to the department, I successfully spent the money on a movie, promising the Colonel I’d pay him back when my stipend arrived. Berezin — a world-class guy — just waved his hand, only asking that I didn’t cross paths with General Zamtaradze, or “it would be the end of us both!” Knowing I was slacking off in class, the Colonel would often call me into the faculty room for a slow dialogue that ritually began with his phrase: — Do you know that the length of hair is inversely proportional to the amount of brains? — to which I had the standard counter-argument in the person of Einstein. After that, the dialogue safely steered into the vastness of existence. We had a great time, but to prevent it from looking suspicious to other “comrades” free from lectures, Berezin would often loudly — with a smirk in his eyes — use phrases like: “Do you know where I’ve got you?” “This isn’t a circus!” “Next time I’m bringing scissors to cut those locks!” “Keep talking and I’ll kick you out of the department!” And all the “comrades with stars” understood — my days were numbered!

Everything rolled along “quietly and without dust” until my nemesis appeared on stage — Captain Tertsvadze.