Caroline Walton - Smashed in the USSR

“Well that was 2,000 years ago.”

“That only proves his point — the time has not yet come.”

Borya and I arrange to meet the following evening but we miss each other and I never see him again.

I board the No. 5 tram on Klara Zetkin street. A man offers me his seat but I shake my head. When the tram moves I take off my beret and turn to the passengers.

As I finish my verse the passengers burst out laughing. The words strike home, because no one can afford to live on their pay, not even the police. A woman holds out a 20 kopeck piece and asks: “You’ll be getting yourself a beer with that, I suppose?”

“Not only beer but vodka too!”

She puts the coin back in her purse, finds a rouble and gives it to me. When I’ve worked the whole tram I get off, board the next one and repeat the performance. By the time I reach Collective Farm Square I have nearly 20 roubles. Some people grumble that I am just collecting money for my hair-of-the-dog, but I’m not offended. It’s up to them whether they give or not. I’m not greedy. Having collected a little money I throw in the towel, buy a bottle and continue to drink throughout the day, inviting anyone who wishes to join me. I have no shortage of companions.

At night I open a bottle to see me through till morning. As I swallow my wine I am struck by guilt over the way I’ve earned it. The cycle of self-recrimination spins round my head as I try to fall asleep. ‘What are you living for?’ I wonder.

Next day I go to work on the tram again, and the next. Begging becomes a way of life that I no longer stop to consider. The police catch me a couple of times, but they either laugh at my verses or throw me off the tram.

Begging is not always as easy as it was that first day. Sometimes the trams are so packed I can’t move among the passengers; sometimes they’re too empty to be worth boarding. Then it rains for nearly three weeks. I freeze and fall ill. For a while I sleep at the top of a lift shaft in an eight-storey block of flats. I crawl up after midnight but I am eventually discovered by a resident who threatens to call the police.

My clothes are filthy and ragged, my shoes split, and I never have enough money for a new pair. I am desperately tired of spending the whole day on my feet. I long for a good night’s sleep but the cops drive me out of the railway station and it’s impossible to take a nap on the short Tblisi underground. Thank God for the bathhouse. It allows me to reheat my bones, but I can’t linger for too long or they might throw me out and bar me from future visits.

Although I’m drinking a lot, alcohol is having less effect on me. Soon I need two or three bottles of fortified wine just to see me through the night, otherwise I can’t even drop off for half an hour. When sleep comes it is crowded with nightmares.

There is a slope between the road and the river where townspeople tip their rubbish. In this place of unimaginable filth I can sometimes find unbroken bottles. The wine shop exchanges these for a bottle of Rkatseli.

At the top of the slope there is a small overhang. It gives me shelter and I’m unseen from the road. Here I huddle at night. The rubbish below me reeks of rotten meat and excrement, but the smell hardly bothers me. I lean back against the earth, with an open bottle between my legs, smoking and taking a swig of wine as soon as I start to feel bad. For months I have derived no pleasure at all from alcohol, but I need it to ward off the dt’s.

When I’ve emptied my bottle I drag myself out of my lair and shuffle down to Klara Zetkin street. There, in a courtyard behind a little gate, is the ‘fountain of life,’ open 24 hours a day for the suffering and the greedy. When I open the gate the house-dogs barely stir; they must be used to night-time callers. I stumble through the courtyard and up a couple of steps to a veranda. Inside the veranda is a table with a three-litre jar of chacha on it. Beside it is a tumbler and a plate of bread and spring onion. An old woman sleeps on a huge bed beside the table — or at least she gives the impression of sleeping.

I lay my coins on the table. They are sweaty and crusted with tobacco. A withered hand shoots out from the bed, grabs the coins and stuffs them somewhere among a heap of rags. Having drunk my glass I slink out of the courtyard, shaking and trying not to throw up.

The devil only knows what those Georgians mix with their chacha. I break out in large boils like soft corns which itch and sting. I try not to squeeze them as I know that will make them worse, but when a boil the size of a walnut grows on my heel I have to burst it before I can get my shoe on. By the end of the day I can hardly walk for the pain. There are no bandages in the chemist. I go to Mikhailovski hospital but they throw me out because of my disgusting state. Finally the blood donor clinic where I occasionally earn a few roubles gives me a bandage. I rinse the wound under a tap in the street and bind up my foot.

After that I feel better and I’m able to do a little work on the No 5 tram. I’m not collecting much money these days, probably because I smell so bad that people turn their heads at my approach.

In the morning I grit my teeth and rip the bandage off my raw skin. I rinse it under a courtyard tap but can’t wait for it to dry as I have to get to work. The damp bandage picks up dust and filth from the street. By dusk the wound is itching unbearably but I take that as a sign that it is healing. A few nights later I unwind the bandage to find a mass of worms writhing in the open flesh. I guess it will only be a matter of time before gangrene sets in. I fall into a stupor, staring at my foot as though it belongs to someone else.

That night on the rubbish dump I settle down with two bottles of Rkatseli to keep me going till dawn. I prop myself up against the bank, dropping off for a second, waking with a start and swallowing a couple of mouthfuls of wine. I keep a strict watch over the level of liquid in the bottle. Hold on, I tell myself, it’s not evening yet! Reflecting on my situation I laugh out loud: “Look at you, my boy!” I even mumble a verse that comes into my head:

I do not know whether I’ll live till dawn, but I don’t care too much either way. Let death come tonight. It’ll put an end to life’s torments once and for all. But I do fear the dt’s. I fear I’ll lose control and do something very bad. And I’m deeply ashamed of my filthy, festering body. I haven’t been to the bathhouse for weeks; I can’t use the communal pool because of my wound and I can’t afford a private cabin. I’m filled with shame as I imagine the state my body will be in when it’s found in the morning.

But I do not die on that Tblisi rubbish dump. In the morning I manage to drag myself out of my lair, gather some empties and limp over to the wine shop. I come out clutching a litre of fortified wine in each hand. As I cross Mardzhanishvili Square I trip and fall, instinctively flinging up my arms to save the bottles. My face slams into the asphalt, but by some miracle the bottles remain intact. With a groan of relief I pass out.

I awake to find myself lying on the pavement with a crowd gathered about me.

“We’ve called an ambulance,” a voice says.

Thank God the police won’t be involved, I relax and let myself be carried off to hospital. I don’t care that my nose is broken and my eyes so swollen I can barely see; I fear only the dt’s, which are fast approaching. Believing that I’ve witnessed a dreadful crime and the police want to interview me, I try to hide. I am also convinced that the perpetrator of the crime is tracking me down in order to kill me. In mortal terror of every living soul, I leap out of bed and run around the hospital, squeezing into dark cupboards and cowering under beds.