The Verdict of the Mountains

By Edisher Kipiani

The Oboe

Every occupation is marked with a boring monotony. With these words Dimitri would console himself every evening when he walked into the Opera House, swinging his oboe, nod to other orchestra players without a word, open the case and draw out his inseparable instrument, gently touching it with his short fingers. Then the huge chandelier would gradually fade like an old oil lamp, late arrivals would hurry to their seats as the conductor stepped onto the podium, raised his baton and the performance would begin. If it was a famous opera singer performing any particular night, Dimitri would occasionally rise during his pauses, standing on tiptoe to better see and hear the visiting singer. Otherwise the monotony was hardly ever broken.
It was the same for the last thirty-five years, ever since Dimitri first joined Tbilisi Opera House orchestra when the great Sarajishvili performed as Abesalom and Don Jose. The same over and over again. Dimitri knew all the classical operas by heart. New and interesting was hard to compose, so there was nothing to stir the old music lover like Dimitri during the premiere rehearsals.
Of course, every premiere was followed by reviews praising the director and lead singers, mentioning somewhere at the end that the orchestra sounded wonderful. That was it. Dimitri had never heard any other words of praise provided his oboe was included in this wonderful sound.
True, along with some other orchestra players, Dimitri was awarded a medal for being part of the wartime orchestras entertaining the wounded World War II soldiers. Also, together with other players, he was formally thanked for his good work, but it always was along with some other and together with other players.
Oh, no! Never had Dimitri even for a second considered himself any better than his fellow-players. He had never wished to be placed above them for his professionalism or any other reason. Never, but sometimes, on his way to the Opera or at bedtime, he would recall his young days in the village, girls, boys, the elders and his flute. How many had enjoyed his flute, how many hearts he made race faster, how many elderly people had kissed his forehead, asking the child to play more and clap for yet more. Those quickened heartbeats, those grateful kisses and encores belonged to him, were his and nobody elses!
But the city seemed to have swallowed the lad. In a way, Dimitris talent ended up diluted, lost among thousands like his or even better than his. Now it was those thousands that kisses were addressed to, others caused the listeners hearts to race, it was others who received all the clapping. True, Dimitri was part of it, but only as a small part, like a drop in a mighty waterfall.
Gradually, Dimitri got accustomed to daytime rehearsals, evening performances and getting home late at night... Daily rehearsals, evening performances...
But wait, something unusual happened that evening, returning to the nameless musician the joy and happiness he hadnt felt since his childhood.
That evening Daisi was performed. Dimitri didnt open his oboe case when he returned home from the rehearsal. He just wrapped it in a fresh newspaper and at about seven in the evening set back to the Opera.
It was some time already that he took to wrapping his oboe in a newspaper. Once a group of tipsy lads had mocked Dimitri. Saying he was as short as his instrument, they laughed, adding they wouldnt hurt him out of pity. Dimitri didnt confront them, uttered not a word, but began wrapping the oboe case in a newspaper.
Now too, he was trying to get through the crowds along the pavement. No one noticed him, no one made way for him. As if Dimitri wasnt there at all. The sea of people didnt in the least care whether he was wa

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: May 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469127941

Edisher Kipiani

Edisher Kipiani (1924-1972) was born in Tbilisi, Georgia where he graduated from the State Technical University. From 1951-1961 he was Prose Section Manager of the literature section for “Drosha” magazine. In 1961 he commenced employment with the same role at “Mnatobi” magazine where he earned promotion to the post of Responsible Secretary which he held until 1972. In 1949 his first work was published and from there the writer used this early success as a springboard for producing his most acclaimed works such as “The Oboe”, “The Hands”, a children’s storybook entitled “The Ten Paged Notebooks” and “The High Ceiling”, a collection of short stories which was published in 1956. Edisher Kipiani’s trademark were the diversity of his characters which he drew from real life inspiration and juxtaposed with the writer’s unique artistic integrity and insight, never more aptly highlighted than in his novels “The Red Clouds” (1967) and “Hats In The Sky” (1971). Edisher Kipiani also worked in the science of motion arts by penning the screenplay for “Little Knights” (1964), along with various animations. “Little Knights” went on to enjoy extended success when it was adapted for theatre and toured throughout Georgia. An audio version was also widely broadcast on Georgian Radio. Sadly, the artist passed away prematurely, aged just 48 years old. It was largely felt that for one so talented; he departed without ample opportunity to produce what may well have been his finest works. Regardless, he has still stamped his magnificence onto the history of Georgian literature; his legacy is a strong body of literary material which is just as fondly regarded today as it was in its day.

Book preview

Contents

The Oboe

A Musical Moment

The Verdict of the Mountains

The Theory of Relativity

The Green Curtain

The Conscripted Music

All Your Life

The Oboe

‘E very occupation is marked with a boring monotony.’ With these words, Dimitri would console himself every evening when he walked into the Opera House, swinging his oboe. He would nod to other orchestra players without a word, open the case, draw out his inseparable instrument, and gently touch it with his short fingers. Then the huge chandelier would gradually fade like an old oil lamp; late arrivals would hurry to their seats as the conductor stepped on to the podium and raised his baton, and the performance would begin. If a famous opera singer was performing any particular night, Dimitri would occasionally rise during his pauses and stand on tiptoe to better see and hear the visiting singer. Otherwise, the monotony was hardly ever broken.

It had been the same for the last thirty-five years, ever since Dimitri joined the Tbilisi Opera House orchestra when the great Sarajishvili performed as Abesalom and Don Jose. The same over and over again. Dimitri knew all the classical operas by heart. New and interesting operas were hard to compose, so there was nothing to stir the old music lover like Dimitri during the premiere rehearsals.

Of course, every premiere was followed by reviews praising the director and lead singers, mentioning somewhere at the end that ‘the orchestra sounded wonderful’. That was it. Dimitri had never heard any other words of praise, unless of course his oboe was also meant among the contributors to the ‘wonderful sound’. True, along with some other orchestra players, Dimitri was awarded a medal for being part of the wartime orchestras entertaining the wounded World War II soldiers. Also, together with other players, he was formally thanked for his good work, but it always was along with ‘some other’ and ‘together with other’ players.

Oh no! Never had Dimitri even for a second considered himself any better than his fellow players. He had never wished to be placed above them for his professionalism or any other reason. Never, but sometimes, on his way to the opera or at bedtime, he would recall his young days in the village—girls, boys, the elders, and his flute. How many had enjoyed his flute! How many hearts he had made race faster! How many elderly people had kissed his forehead, asking the child to play more and clap for yet more! Those quickened heartbeats, those grateful kisses and encores belonged to him, were his, and nobody else’s!

But the city seemed to have swallowed the lad. In a way, Dimitri’s talent ended up diluted, lost among thousands like his or even better than his. Now it was those thousands that kisses were addressed to, others caused the listeners’ hearts to race; it was others who received all the clapping. True, Dimitri was part of it, but only a small part, like a drop in a mighty waterfall.

Gradually, Dimitri got accustomed to daytime rehearsals, evening performances and getting home late at night . . . daily rehearsals, evening performances . . .

But wait—something unusual happened that evening, returning to the nameless musician the joy and happiness he hadn’t felt since his childhood.

That evening Daisi¹1 was performed. Dimitri didn’t open his oboe case when he returned home from the rehearsal. He just wrapped it in a fresh newspaper, and at about seven in the evening set back to the opera.

It was some time already that he took to wrapping his oboe in a newspaper. Once a group of tipsy lads had mocked Dimitri, saying that he was as short as his instrument; they laughed, adding that they wouldn’t hurt him out of pity. Dimitri didn’t confront them, uttered not a word, but began wrapping the oboe case in a newspaper.

Now too, he was trying to get through the crowds along the pavement. No one noticed him; no one made way for him. It was as if Dimitri wasn’t there at all. The sea of people didn’t in the least care whether he was walking in the street or not. Tall, confident young men even bumped into him from time to time. He seemed to be invisible for everyone around.

Dimitri stopped at a confectionary shop window. He remembered his wife asking him to get some sweets on his way.

He quickened his steps when he left the shop. The crowds taking a leisurely walk along the main street slowed his progress; so he stepped down from the pavement and trotted along the curb. Sensing a fast-approaching trolleybus from behind, Dimitri jumped on to the pavement again just in time. He heard a couple of frightened shrieks from the people around. They might have thought it had hit him.

And as the trolleybus thundered by, blowing dust at his trousers and smelly air into his face, and as the street rumble filled his ears, he clearly heard the words from behind:

‘Do you know who he is?’

Dimitri hardly restrained himself from turning round. It felt as if he was pulled by his collar. He immediately slowed down. Surprisingly, he sensed the words meant him.

‘Who is he?’ a pleasant female voice asked.

Dimitri tensed as if his entire fate depended on the moment. He froze inwardly in the ensuing silence, waiting for the verdict.

‘They won’t be able to start Daisi without him in the opera,’ the man explained and continued in a whisper.

Dimitri couldn’t breathe, as if he was suddenly tossed upwards. A feeling of sheer joy or something stronger ran through his entire body. His heart, this tiny organ, began to pound violently, spinning his short body. With a flushed face, he looked back, eyeing passers-by.

A young couple walked past, hand in hand, smiling. They might have been smiling at him.

An elderly couple was walking behind them. Their kind eyes smiled at Dimitri too.

Behind them—young people, schoolchildren, and university students.

The elderly again.

Tall and short.

Smartly dressed and good-looking.

Such a lot of people that the street could hardly be seen.

Such a lot that the earth seemed unable to hold them, trembling under their weight.

The whole city seemed to be out in the street, following Dimitri’s footsteps.

‘I wonder which one it was,’ he thought. Another fast-approaching trolleybus scared him at that point, and when he looked back again, there were different faces, different eyes smiling at him.

‘Which one?’ Dimitri wondered again, looking ahead this time, trying to see people’s faces. ‘Unable to start Daisi without him,’ he repeated to himself and began to hum the prelude without noticing it. The oboe indeed starts the opera with a sad, long lament. The tune is caught up by the clarinet, to be joined by the whole orchestra. Sadness slowly disappears. The orchestra fights something or someone, smashing everything on its way, gradually losing its strength, returning to the oboe’s mournful tune, its lament about the lost past.

‘Of course they can’t start without me!’ Dimitri nearly shouted out loud, noticing he was practically running to the opera.

Now people gave him way.

Everyone was looking at him.

Everyone was smiling at him.

And everyone seemed to be whispering the stranger’s words.

Suddenly, he was stopped by someone. It turned out to be his neighbour.

‘What’s the rush, Dimitri? It’s much too early.’

‘Nothing doing. We are expected to be well before the actual start,’ Dimitri assumed his usual, slightly whining manner. But deep down he felt elated, immensely pleased he had something except that complaining tone that his neighbour had no idea about.

The neighbour talked about this and that. Half listening, Dimitri was staring with unseeing eyes, only dropping an occasional yes and right when his acquaintance insisted on getting some reaction from him.

Whistling under his breath, he walked into the opera wings. He felt unusual lightness, wishing to do some childish mischief like slapping a bold head or jumping over the row of empty seats.

He edged through the music stands in the orchestra pit and put his instrument on his seat. Suddenly, he felt an irresistible urge to have a cigarette. He had forgotten to buy some on his way and now it was too late to go out. So he went up the narrow spiral staircase to the second circle. He bought the cheapest cigarettes in the buffet and lit one. He paced the lounge, throwing occasional glances at the stage through the open box door. He could see the curtain and hear the musical discord of the instruments being tuned. How he enjoyed these cracking, lisping sounds—the minute before the actual start.

He lit another cigarette and immediately felt dizzy. He leaned against the counter and