Tbilisi by Sara Maria Hasbun

Tbilisi | Sara Maria Hasbun

The morning I arrived back in Tbilisi, I messaged my old trainer, who met me just inside the door to Urban Garden. He rested his swollen hands heavily on my shoulders. 

Ana, he said. Anuka. You came back. 

He looked into my eyes without a smile.

Of course, I said. How is everything here? How are the protests?

Immediately, he disengaged. With his bear paw he swiped away the thought of protests.

No protests, he said. You watch too much foreign media. This is just a few kids.

He set up my weights, gestured impatiently that I should start. Almost noon, he said. Very busy at lunch. Hurry up.

The gym was already busy. Russian women with their swollen lips, a group of German twenty-somethings in old t-shirts. And Israelis. So many Israelis. Later, Davit told me that Tbilisi was “crawling with Mossad.” Anytime there were protests, Tbilisi swelled with Israelis.

Where do the Georgians work out? I asked my trainer. I never see Georgians at this gym.

Georgians don’t work out, he said.

You work out, I said.

I work, he said. This is my job.

###

After the workout we got a coffee at Slink. Wi-Fi password: putinkhuilo. Putin Sit on a Dick. 

The trainer drank his black coffee and looked at my face. You’re drinking again.

I was always drinking, I said. I didn’t stop.

He shook his head. If you stop drinking, I’ll put you on my Instagram.

I don’t want to be on your Instagram.

You foreigners drink so much.

You Georgians made the wine, I said. Did you think we came here for the Wi-Fi?

He laughed, then got up and walked away. Tomorrow, Ana, he said. Anechka, Anuka. Legs. No drinking.

###

I didn’t make it to any more training that week, mostly because of the drinking. But also because there were a lot of people to see. I was based in Beijing then, but Tbilisi is one of those world cities that absorbs you quickly into the fabric, social digestion of the most expedient order. 

In the hours I had free, I wrote, and once I had adjusted to the timezone I finally called Davit. 

Davit had been a diplomat in Beijing. The Georgian embassy there was small, they were badly understaffed, Davit was overworked. But he was always good for a nightcap, always good for some dancing at the sandwich shop that turned into a disco. 

Now Davit was back in Georgia’s capital, working for his family business, taking a break from foreign service. We met at a posh bar in Vera, the embassy district, and sat outside next to the heaters. I should have known where the night was going when he violently ordered shots of chacha to start.

The chacha settled into our bloodstreams, hot and fiery and reassuring, and Davit filled me in on the latest. Georgia’s accession to the EU was “on pause.” Protesters were irate. It was enshrined in the Georgian constitution, he explained, that Georgia should aspire to join the EU.

Should you be talking like this? I teased. Don’t you work for the government?

I should not be talking like this, he said. Seriously. Why do you think I needed a break from foreign service? I’m tired of letting them speak through my mouth. Don’t get used to this, Ana. Hearing my own words from my own mouth.

I asked him if he had been to any protests, and he said no. That if he went, he’d lose his job. 

A cat jumped onto his lap; there were cats everywhere in Tbilisi. They were clean and chipped, but numerous. Belonging to no one and everyone all at once. The cat sniffed the glass of chacha, retreated.

How big are the protests? I asked. Bigger than last spring?

Tens of thousands, easily, he said. They’re small in the evenings, but by the late hours of the night it looks like a New Years party. A really angry New Years party. 

My trainer didn’t think there were protests at all, I told him. He said it was all a foreign hoax.

Is your trainer Russian? he asked.

No, I said. He’s Georgian. He speaks Russian, though.

Well, said Davit. We all speak Russian here. Speaking Russian doesn’t make you less Georgian. Except in some cases, when it does. Anyways. That’s enough politics. 

He called the waiter over and they chatted in Georgian. We ended up with two bottles of Saperavi, a Mukuzani and a Khashmi Oak.

Two at a time? I said. 

Let’s not pretend we don’t know where this night is going, he said. Let’s dispense with the modesties.

And where is it going? I asked. My hand was easily within reach of his; in Beijing he had been greedy with my hand, in Beijing he had clasped it, traced it, squeezed it. 

But he just shook his head, and poured two glasses for each of us, encouraged me to switch between the two wines, to enjoy the comparison. The Mukuzani was chocolatey and herbal. The Khashmi was nutty and earthy. If we hadn’t said a word for the rest of the night, I could have happily sat there switching off between the two glasses, watching cats slide noiselessly along stone walls, meowing, waiting in vain for us to order food. 

I want to work on problems that are mathematical, he said finally. Logical. Cold. I’m done with foreign service, I won’t be bidding again. I want to track the cost of goods sold. Top line, bottom line. I don’t want to deal in the abstractions of sovereignty. I don’t want to deal in the currency of relationships. People suck, you know, Ana.

Not all people, I said. 

Some of our best friends are people, I said.

Not all people, he repeated.

You’re people, he said. You’re good people.

Thanks, I said. You’re good people too. I reached out my hand, but he looked away. 

Most people suck, he said. I wish I were like you, Ana, I wish I still didn’t know about how much people suck. Why did you even come here to Georgia? 

I thought about it. I guess I’m the opposite, I said. I’m tired of business. I’m tired of the black line. Top line, bottom line. All the lines.

The only lines you should care about, he said, are the ones you’ll do off a mirror if we go to Bassiani tonight.

Where? I said, absently. I was trying not to think about the fact that he still hadn’t taken my hand. 

You don’t want lines, he said.

I guess I want inspiration, I said. I’m still trying to write. I think I’m your opposite. I’m done with business. Abstraction is what I want.

Abstraction is fine when it isn’t your abstraction, he said. When it isn’t your country’s abstract problems. When it isn’t your country’s muddy pain. Then abstraction is just art.

He smiled at me. That’s good, right? Put that in your book.

You’re drunk already, I said.

Maybe.

Over the course of the next few hours, Davit and I both got ragingly drunk on the Saperavi. We had forgotten to eat. Davit got louder and louder, and I laughed harder and harder. He became more and more insistent on the idea of going to Bassiani.

You want something to write about, he said, I’ll take you to Bassiani.

The waiter was pouring wine at that moment and momentarily paused the flow. Then clucked, shaking his head, muttering in Georgian.

Davit was clearly displeased at the intrusion and sparred with the waiter in language I didn’t understand. Then the waiter shrugged his shoulders, turned to me, and said in Russian, it’s not a good idea. 

Then I suppose the waiter had reason to doubt my Russian, because he squeezed out, in effortful English: Is. Not. Good. Idea. Understand?

She’s American, said Davit to the waiter, in Russian. She’ll be fine at Bassiani. 

The waiter shook his head and spoke to me in Russian again, slow and careful. Bassiani. Police. Many police. You understand?

Davit waved off the thought. The police came once to Bassiani, he explained to me in Russian, for the waiter’s benefit. Only one time. 

He switched back to English. It’s great music. They say it is second only to Berghain. But it can get political, he said. At Bassiani. If you look Slavic, you must show your passport to get in, to prove that you’re not Russian. But you don’t look Slavic. You’ll be fine. Police resources are very low because of the protests, they’re not going to raid a dance club.

We paid and called a cab.

As our cab crossed the river, I put my hand on Davit’s hand. He squeezed it, then put my hand back in my lap.

I can’t think about that right now, he said. I’m sorry, Ana. I’m feeling terribly old.

You’re forty, I said. Spring chicken, I said. Spring chicken kebab. 

He was quiet. Our cab crept through the Chugureti weekend traffic, slow enough that I could read the English and Russian graffiti that crept over building facades, like so many vines. Russians Go Home. Glory to Ukraine. Georgia is Europe.

I feel so old, he said again.

You’re a spring chicken, I said. Spring chicken mtsvadi. I drunkenly stumbled over the Georgian consonant cluster. Not that I could have done better sober.

Or too young, I don’t know.

You’re older than me, I said. Is there someone else?

Davit took my chin in his hand, kissed my mouth quickly, chaste. It’s not you, he said. It’s not anyone else. I haven’t jacked off in a month.

Ah, I said. 

I’m just stressed, he said. It really isn’t you.

###

The Bassiani idea didn’t last long. As we pulled up, Davit saw some friends who had already been waiting in line for an hour, ready to give up. They convinced us to go instead to a wild little corner bar where glass shards already lined the floor, already crunched under our shoes, and where two Spaniards were already dancing on the counter, singing in Spanish.

It’s all fucking foreigners here, said Davit, perhaps forgetting I was a fucking foreigner.

A man at the bar turned around, leaned back on his elbow, and spoke to Davit in English. That’s because any real Georgian is at the Parliament building, he said. 

I felt Davit go very still.

The man spoke calmly, but those within earshot had gone quiet. 

I looked at Davit’s face. His features did not change, but he put his hand on the back of my neck. I could feel the heat from his fingers.

Excuse me, said Davit to the man at the bar. Excuse me. You’re here. You’re not at Parliament. Are you not a real Georgian?

I’m from Abkhazia, said the man. I’m a Georgian from Abkhazia. A real Georgian. And I’m only here to pick up a friend, then we’ll go back to the protests.

Well, Abkhazia, said Davit. You don’t fucking know me. You don’t get to fucking judge me. 

Abkhazia shrugged and sipped his drink.

How do you know what I’m giving, said Davit. What I have already given.

Davit switched into Georgian, then, and let forth a barrage of words I couldn’t hope to understand. Abkhazia was unperturbed; he shrugged and turned back to his drink at the bar. 

Davit turned back to me, put his hand on my lower back, guided me to another part of the bar. He waited for the bartender’s attention but kept glancing over at the Abkhazian.

Abkhazia’s friend soon arrived, as forecasted, and took a barstool. He was a dark man in a black t-shirt, very built. Had I seen him at Urban Garden? 

The two friends slapped hands, did a half-hug. Abkhazia showed off the contents of a plastic bag full of little plastic bottles, and the friend seemed to approve. They left the bar without another look at us. 

Davit’s friends were already nowhere to be seen, but we befriended the Spaniards who had been dancing on the bar. Then some Belorussians showed up and we started throwing dice. We tried not to talk about the protests, or at least Davit tried, and I definitely tried. But one Belorussian had just come from Minsk that morning; he wanted to see what it would look like, a protest in Georgia. Protests in Belarus are very different, he said, I can assure you. You Georgians don’t know how good you have it. How lucky you are. His face tightened and he did not elaborate. 

Davit’s dark eyes grew darker by the hour, he threw dice and didn’t even watch where they went. He couldn’t hold onto the thread of the conversation, he laughed a few beats behind everyone else, he grunted at the wrong times. I nudged him when it was his turn to play, and he threw, then smiled and patted my hand, the smile disappearing as quickly as it had appeared, as he stared down the bottom of his drink. He got up to order another round of chacha.

I thought of a TV news producer who had taught me about “gear shifts.” Sometimes, he said, after reporting on a terrible tragedy, you need to switch to a lighter story. But you can’t make the switch right away of course, that would be gruesome. Sometimes, at the very least, you need to say, “the time in London is 10:30, fog is expected to last through the evening.”

Our new friends were rowdy, silly, we were at that part of the night where everything is hilarious, everything that happens is in the service of hilarity. But as drunk as we all were, as accepting as I knew the group would be of any insanity that came out of my mouth, at 3 a.m. in a bar in Chugureti, I couldn’t think of how to say it, the gear shift. The time in London, I thought desperately, watching Davit. The time in London.

It all started to get very dark. Not even the wine and the chacha could keep us light although we were really trying, even though Queen was playing, then Carly Rae Jepsen, then Tatu, then Abba. Davit and the Spaniards and the Belorussians were groping desperately for lightness, ordering drinks with a vengeance, twirling me halfheartedly, laughing loudly, translating terrible Belorussian jokes for my benefit. But the lightness wouldn’t take. Protesters were coming into the bar with red eyes from tear gas, washing their faces in the same sink the bartender used to wash our glasses. A protester came in with a broken nose, the bartender gave him a stack of branded napkins to stuff into his nostril. One of the Belorussians started to cry and told us he could never go home. I felt their sadness take shape in me, and I shuddered involuntarily with fear. I didn’t, back then, have the faculties to cope with that kind of existential precarity. 

Around two in the morning, I got a phone call from an old lover and there it was, a chance for lightness. I stumbled outside to take the call, to listen to sweet words, to lower the stakes a bit. 

Davit came out to the street shortly after, to throw up into the sidewalk trash can. I told the lover I’d call him back.

They didn’t understand, Davit said to me. That Abkhazian, those Georgians. You should have told them I’m a diplomat. That I’m serving my country. Even if I have to pretend it isn’t all just a puppet show for Bidzina. You should have told them that. I can’t tell them that, I’d sound like a jackass. But you could have told them. You could have defended me.

I’m sorry, I said. You’re right. I should have told them.

I’m so old, said Davit, I’m so, so old. But I’m really not in a hurry to die.

Who’s dying? I said. No one is dying. Who’s dying? Jesus, Davit. It’s the weekend. 

Not me, he said. I’m not dying. Because I’m staying out of that abstractionist bullshit. I’m not trying to be some hero, I’m not trying to pretend like the future of Georgia depends on whether or not I’m standing in front of Parliament acting like an idiot.

Davit, I said. I tried again, like an idiot, to take his hand.

Don’t fucking judge me, Ana. I’m still a man. I’m still a man.

He kicked a wall. I backed away a few steps.

I’m not judging you, I told him. Do I look like I’m judging you? Do I look like I am risking my life for my country? Do I look like I am risking my life for anything? 

Just then my old lover called again, so I told Davit I was going to take a walk around the block. He shrugged and went back inside.

I walked around the block, I walked some more, and then I found myself back at my Airbnb. I pulled the covers over my head while I listened to the lover’s sweet words. There in my bed I let the phone sex pull me out of the abstractions, let it pull me into the singularity of a present moment, the tunnel vision of desire. The absolution of having, as the single most important short-term goal, the release of orgasm. No other thoughts in my head. No other abstractions. I came hard, then immediately felt guilty. I felt bad for leaving Davit, in that state.

Come back, texted Davit. The Abkhazian came back with his friend. They almost smashed a bottle over my head, but now we’re doing shots.

You’re really selling it, I told him. 

I considered going back to Davit; I did feel pretty bad about abandoning him at the nadir of his moral reckoning. But I quickly realized the guilt I felt was not enough to propel me outside. There was no fucking way I was going back out, not into that darkness. The lover was still on the phone. He kept going, mostly for himself by then, he kept saying his sweet, pretty, filthy things. I half-listened, half-scrolled through Georgian news alerts. Took some notes for my writing.

Did you come? asked the lover. Yes, I said. I came. But keep going. I can come again.

###

The next morning Davit called and woke me up, I’d forgotten to mute my phone.

 He was having brunch at Slink, with the Abkhazian and his friend, they’d gone all night, they were friends now. They’d lost the Belorussians but had ended up at Bassiani after all. They’d ordered too many syrniki, he said, your favorite. Come eat syrniki.

I threw on my clothes and hoped I wouldn’t run into the trainer, since Slink was right next to the gym.

I joined the group and dug right into the fluffy clouds of cheese syrniki. Hunger was clarifying, it had temporarily eliminated my fear of Davit and his existential dread. Once I finished a couple fluffy clouds I looked up. They were all watching me eat. Davit reached over and dumped more cherry sauce on my plate. 

So much sugar, said the Abkhazian’s friend.

Do you work out at Urban Garden? I asked him.

Of course, he said. Every Israeli works out at Urban Garden.

So are you Mossad? I asked. 

He laughed and shook his head. No, little girl. I’m just here for the party.

Davit raised his eyebrows at me. 

The Abkhazian told me his story. He had fled Abkhazia during the five-day war in 2008, when Russia had occupied the region. He had ended up a refugee in Istanbul. When he finally sorted a proper Georgian passport, he came back, this time to Tbilisi. He opened a poetry café. The police had closed the cafe last Spring. Health code violation, he said, making quotation marks of his fingers.

Stupid move for them, he said. Because now that I’m not supervising pourovers I can work full-time in service of a European Georgia.

The Abkhazian put more food on Davit’s plate. Eat up, he said in Russian, yesh, yesh. You’ll need your strength for tonight.

Davit shook his head. I’m not going out tonight, he said.

Are you going to stay in and cry? asked the Israeli. Like you cried last night?

You cried? I asked.

Davit shoveled food into his mouth and watched the Israeli. I was drunk, he said. 

Well, tonight you can cry from tear gas, said the Israeli. Or if you prefer, you can stay home, and you can cry because you’re a little bitch.

I tensed, but Davit was either too drunk or too sober to be baited anymore. 

It’s so much more complicated than that, he said to the Israeli, looking exhausted. Trust me. I told you. I work in government. You guys have no idea. You have no idea what else is going on. Even if you get what you think you want—it’s so much more complicated than you think.

The Israeli shrugged. I’m sure it is very complicated, he said. But if so, then I am glad to have no idea. As long as I can still see what’s right in front of me. And if you’re having trouble seeing what is right in front of you, they say just a few drops of these can help.

He held open the plastic bag that the Abkhazian had given him the night before at the bar, showed us the contents. Inside were dozens of bottles of saline solution.

###

A few days later I was back in Beijing, back at the café where Davit and I used to go, where we used to have breakfast after a night of dancing. I met with a journalist from Russia Today, an old friend. A longtime Beijinger, originally from Siberia. 

I’m glad you went to Georgia, she said, I’m glad you could see it for yourself. How much the media is blowing everything out of proportion. You didn’t see any protests, right? No drama? Just a few kids making trouble, right?

I thought about it and realized I hadn’t actually seen the protests. Not with my own eyes. I hadn’t gone anywhere near the parliament building. I shrugged.

Just then my phone rang. Davit. 9 a.m. in Beijing, 5 a.m. in Georgia, I did the math.

You ok, Davit? Everything ok?

Yes, Ana, he said, Anyushka, Anuka. Aniko. 

He was drunk, perhaps. Or amped. Using all of my Georgian nicknames at once.

I just wanted to show you this, he said. He turned on his video, and I pulled the phone away from my ear, to watch.

Around Davit was a colorful wave of people and flags, a wave that licked and retracted, flowed and receded, seemingly meters from the steps of Parliament. No, not quite reaching the steps of Parliament. In between the steps and the crowd was a black mass of police. With the poor resolution, I had thought the mass was an empty shadow. As the details came through, as the pixels multiplied, I saw helmets, shields, yellow reflective stripes.

You’re at the protest, I said. 

Yes, he said. Can you see?

I thought you didn’t want to deal in abstractions.

What? he said. I can’t hear you. Sorry, it is so loud. I saw the Abkhazian, pulling on a black balaclava. 

Be safe, Davit, I said. Please be safe. 

He laughed and shook his head. I can’t hear you, he said. I just wanted you to see. Can you see?

I can see.

He laughed, I can see now, too. 

Mid-laugh, the line cut off. Perhaps the signal was weak in the crowd, thousands and thousands of mobile phones guzzling data. Or perhaps Davit had given up, since he couldn’t hear me, perhaps he had ended the call. 

My phone screen returned to black. In the dim and distorted reflection of the screen, all I could see was my face.

Listen as Sara Maria reads an excerpt from her story…

About the author: