Rana Dasgupta - Solo

‘In ten years’ time I’ll be an old woman.’

‘You will never be old,’ he said.

He leaned over the bed and kissed her: it was the first time. He lifted her up, and she felt as if a winged horse were in her groin. They walked together down the stairs, the dog running ahead, and the house had filled with people. There was a queue at the main entrance, where guns were checked. A waiter gave them champagne.

Then Kakha was enthronged, and Khatuna left him.

She wandered around the party, marvelling at the decorations: beautiful dancers, champagne fountains and rotating video walls showing clips of Kakha’s life. She saw politicians, beauty queens and famous assassins. She watched the musicians for a while — a turbofolk band that had been flown in from Serbia. She saw Vakhtang, who said to her,

‘Wow, Khatuna, you look like a model.’

She took him in her arms and danced against his bulk. In her heels she was much taller than he. She began to sing into his ear the sugary love lyrics of a Russian song. Vakhtang remained stiff.

‘Have you seen the women they’ve got here tonight?’ he said.

‘They look expensive.’

Vakhtang sniggered.

‘On the house, sister.’

His face was thickset, his mouth filled with gold teeth. He pointed with his eyes.

‘I’m going to have me that one over there. Have you seen the tits she’s got?’

He left her. Khatuna sidled through the perfume and clamour, looking for a place to be alone. In the billiard room she found an empty armchair, and she sat down and lit a Trussardi. There were men around her, arguing. A man in dark glasses said,

‘There are colleagues in this room who have invested good money in oil pipelines and they are losing their investments because the government wishes to interfere where it has no business to interfere.’

‘But Mr Maisaia has not invested anything! He set up a fictitious company overnight and he stole the money intended for that pipeline! He may be my friend: but friendship is friendship and activity is activity!’

‘Mr Kenchosvili, may I ask you to cast a veil of discretion over your lips when you speak of these things in public. There are some things that are known but not said.’

When she finished her cigarette, Khatuna got up and wandered away. She had Kakha’s kiss still on her lips, and her new dress like angel hands around her legs. People were dancing together: the party was whirlpooling, it was rearing up against the high walls, and she wanted to ride on top of it. Waiters brought in bowls of cocaine, and Khatuna took a couple of lines. She saw a pale man in foreign clothes who was taking discreet photographs of the models. She saw TV personalities and businessmen on the dance floor. The Serbian turbofolk singer sang Turkish tunes while a rapper in mirrored glasses cut in with Russian and English rhymes. Motherfuckin’ Tbilisi . A big gangster called the Raven walked in with his girlfriend, a porn star.

Khatuna went to the bathroom. An open toilet door was banging noisily where Natalia Sabadze was having sex with a male model. Khatuna checked herself in the mirror. She was amazed by herself. She went into a cubicle and locked herself in. She leaned back against the dim wall, closed her eyes and gave way to the luxurious feeling that she was many metres tall, and so was everyone around her.

She returned to the party, which extended outside and round the pool, for the night was not cold. She made deliberate sine waves through the crush, heading for the door, wanting to see the moon — and she almost collided with the foreign man who had been taking photographs. He stepped back to let her pass, and she said in English,

‘Such a gentleman.’

He grinned and walked with her out into the darkness. They stood looking at the moon, blurred through the clouds. She said,

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I met Kakha Sabadze a few times in New York and he asked me to pay him a visit. I’m in construction, he likes buildings. You know him?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s a classy guy. Very smart. I understand he’s big in these parts.’

‘He used to be a famous footballer.’

Faces were blue in the light of the swimming pool. Out here the music was lighter.

‘Amazing party,’ said the American.

‘I saw you taking pictures of that girl on the sofa.’

‘Oh.’ He laughed sheepishly. ‘We don’t have girls like that where I come from.’

‘I thought you had everything in America.’

‘Well. Yes. In a different sense. How come you speak such good English?’

‘I speak four languages,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing. Do you know I designed Kakha’s house? He came to me and said, Make me a futuristic Georgian castle that will last a thousand years .’

She felt she could tell this man anything and he would believe it. If she wanted she could make him fall in love with her like that .

‘Really?’ he said. He looked at it with renewed interest. ‘It seems like a high-tech stronghold. Looks like it has every kind of security system on the planet.’

She said solemnly,

‘The only way to survive is to be afraid.’

He nodded earnestly. She was entertained.

They had left the rest of the party behind, and could see the lights spread out. Her blue dress brushed his legs, and he was slowing the pace.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked softly.

‘Khatuna.’

‘I’m Charles.’

‘Like the prince?’

‘I guess so.’

‘But he’s not as good looking as you.’

He smiled, and stopped walking. He turned to look at her. He put a hand on her breast and leant to kiss her. She avoided his lips, and for a moment they stood looking at each other, nose to nose. His hand loosened, and he stepped back, uncertain.

‘You’re lucky no one saw you,’ she said. ‘You could have been out in the street with a broken nose by now. Or worse.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Of course you meant.’

‘I’m very sorry.’

‘You’re funny.’

For a moment they looked with parallel gazes back to the house, and the shrieks of the party flickered over their silence.

‘Shall we go back?’ she proposed.

They started to walk. He said,

‘If you ever come to New York, please give me a call. If you want to talk about architecture. I have lots of contacts. This is my card.’

She took it.

CHARLES HAHN CEO

Struction Enterprises, Inc.

Building the twenty-first century

‘Still a couple of hours before it starts,’ she said. ‘The twenty-first century.’

‘No. It’s nearly midnight.’

Inside, Natalia Sabadze had taken the stage and was performing some of the songs from her new album, Nata 2000 . Her voice was breathy, as if she were whispering in your ear, and she kept her eyes half closed as she sang. When her performance was over, Kakha led the applause, and the crowd kept clapping for a full five minutes while Nata walked slowly down the steps of the stage and kissed her father ceremonially on the cheek. Then a prominent businessman grabbed the microphone and gave a long speech in praise of Kakha. He proposed toasts to Kakha and his family. He listed Kakha’s achievements and the many qualities of his character. He flattered for a long time. He said,

‘We would like to present Kakha Sabadze with a special millennium prize for his contribution to Georgian industry!’

A young woman presented a velvet case to Kakha, who took out a gold medallion on a chain. He nodded graciously, and the guests applauded. The businessman said into the microphone,

‘If you look at it very carefully, Mr Sabadze, you’ll see your own portrait engraved into the gold. You’ll see we’ve given you something very special.’