Part One – There
(Eastern Hemisphere)
CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT – YEARS IN THE MEDICAL SCHOOL (PART 3) – HISTORY OF CHICHICO
I’m making a small digression. This true story, which has no direct relevance to me, happened when I was in my fifth year of medical school. But the people described in it are well familiar to me, and I wanted to revitalize memories about them and the good relations between our families in three generations.
* * *
The young March wind flew through the streets of the old city. He knocked with shutters and flapped flags; he tore people’s hats off, and shirts and underpants from clotheslines; led round dances from crumpled pieces of paper and empty packs of cigarettes in squares; he was mischievous, suddenly depriving and presenting, he played the ancient fun game “Gizhi Marti” (Crazy March).
The cars, wrapped in tarpaulin covers, did not care about the wind in the paid parking lot near the khachapuri-cafe on the train station square.
“I’ll bet I untie it!” the wind blew up and pulled as hard as it could.
The edge of the cover on the hood of the white Zhiguli was moving further and further until it began to flap invitingly in the wind, approaching the neighboring car.
“It would be nice to tie it up,” muttered the pastry chef Vakho, “Or it’ll hit my left mirror with an iron ring.”
He threw his jacket over a white robe, ran out of the cafe to the offending car and froze. The picture that opened to his eyes was like a film shot from an Italian detective story. “დედა ვატირე!” (“Your mother!”) Vakho whispered in amazement. The windshield of the white Zhiguli was pierced with submachine gun burst. The corpse of a man, covered in blood, lies sprawled in the driver’s seat.
* * *
“Citizen Manasherov, you identify the corpse of your son-in-law, Revaz Solomonovich Krikheli, resident of Gori, forty-two years old, candidate of medical sciences (PhD).”
“Yes, I do” old Manasherov sobbed, “What a terrible death!”
Dr. Krikheli, who was undergoing advanced training at the SRITO (Scientific Research Institute of Traumatology and Orthopedics), has been on the wanted list since the New Year, ever since he received a warrant for an apartment in Tbilisi, and the family was planning to move to the capital to him.
“Do you have any suspicions? Extramarital affairs, drugs, gambling, debts?”
“I told you, dear. I don’t know about his mistress. Maybe he had one… What, he is not a man? Rezo was a good family man. For whom do you think he was trying to get an apartment in Tbilisi and defend his doctoral dissertation (double PhD)? He didn’t drink, didn’t inject drugs, and sometimes smoked marihuana after long operations. He played cards. His salary was enough for this – he was a doctor, after all. And Rezo only borrowed money from me. The last time I myself gave five thousand to Deputy Director Chichiko to help with an apartment and a dissertation. I have already asked him to return them back, since neither the apartment nor the dissertation are needed anymore.
“Did he agreed?”
“At first he refused, citing that he had given three thousand for the intended purpose, and bought himself a “Grundig” tape recorder for two thousand. He offered to give me the tape recorder, but I didn’t take it. And yesterday he called and invited me to come for money.
“Very good!” the investigator was delighted, “Ask him to bring money for work and make an appointment at four o’clock sharp.”
* * *
“Here, you can count it!” Chichiko handed a wad of money to the Gori miser, the father-in-law of the unfortunate Rezo.
He grabbed the money and began to count the bills.
“How lousy it all turned out!” thought the deputy director of SRITO, listening to the rustle and crunch of papers in the awkward thick fingers of the visitor, “For all. Especially for a poor guy. What kind of crap has he gotten himself into? Played with thieves and ended up like that? And because of him, I am suffering. Not only my share got lost, but I also had to pull back money from the Party district committee. Well, they were not harmed; they will sell the apartment to someone else. There are plenty of people willing it. Worst is to write a PhD dissertation for free.”
All the evening, having already received three thousand rubles from the district party committee, he suffered, choosing the right decision. It was very tempting to keep this money for himself for all the work and fears that he suffered, transferring money first in one direction and then in the other. The example of his brother-in-law, Omari Mgeladze, who famously appropriated a car bought with money from the fugitive businessman Tilman, excited Chichiko. But the voice of his late mother Ada whispered,
“I have always been against our Tinatin’s marriage with this nouveau riche.”
It seems that she misinterpreted the word nouveau riche as “thief,” but Chichiko knew that in this case there was no mistake.
“No, this is not my way! Helping someone write a doctoral dissertation for money is a completely respectable way to make money, and not a scam. And I feel sorry for his family – they have lost their breadwinner. But why did I agree to bring money to the institute? On the other hand, I don’t take them, but return them. But still, this is not a suitable place for money transactions!”
And as if in unison with his thoughts, fists were pounded on the glass door of his office,
“Open it immediately! Police!”
“Hide it,” Chichiko gestured to Manasherov, trying to handle the latch with shaking hands.
“Open it now, otherwise we’ll break the glass!”
Chichiko, pale, horrified by everything that was happening, opened the door.
“Citizen Kartvelidze, you are accused of murdering doctor Revaz Krikheli!”
The handcuffs snapped onto his wrists, and two burly inspectors literally dragged him through the entire institute to the street, into the car, showing everyone his shameful bracelets, deliberately not covered with outer clothing.
* * *
At the investigative department where Chichiko was taken, there were several investigators waiting for the arrested person.
“What’s that stench?” asked a tall, thin man, with bluish stubble on his long, displeased face, “Did you beat him?”
“No- no, he poop himself,” one of the inspectors grinned, “As soon as he realized that he was screwed.”
“Sit down!” the tall one shouted, “Go sit in the shit! You got into it yourself when you killed your colleague. How much did he owe you?!”
“I didn’t kill! He didn’t owe me anything!” Chichiko wheezed.
“What kind of money did you give to Manasherov?”
“I’ll explain everything to you now,” Chichiko perked up, “This is money for help with a doctoral dissertation and for an apartment. The latter does not concern me at all, I only handed over three thousand to the district party committee as an intermediary. Do you understand?”
“State everything with dates and details, we will take minutes and record it on a tape recorder. This is the only way to avoid the death penalty.”
For a whole hour, Chichiko described in detail his contacts with party and government officials. The tall investigator, apparently the senior one, sent all the employees home – it was the end of the working day, and it was difficult to be in the room. And he himself was very pleased that he unexpectedly received abundant incriminating evidence that could be profitably sold or exchanged. Well, what can you do, the hypothesis turned out to be incorrect, but extremely fruitful.
“You can call home or a lawyer, you will undoubtedly need one. In ten minutes you will be transported to the city prison, believe me – for a long time.”
* * *
There was a general meeting at SRITO. They discussed the behavior of a former party member, former deputy director of the institute for science, Albert Titsianovich Kartvelidze.
Employees spoke and said different things. Many understood perfectly well who was actually selling scarce apartments.
“The fish rots from the head,” said retired professor Okropiridze.
But just in case, no one supported him; the professor was very old and could, hiding behind his Alzheimer’s, say whatever he wanted.
Academician A. said about Chichiko, “We warmed the snake on our chest!”
The academician was a talented person and knew how to beautifully tell the harsh truth about a friend.
* * *
However, not all was lost. Chichiko’s ex-wife, the mother of his children, who lived her whole life as if under house arrest behind a wall from them, received partial rehabilitation after the death of her mother-in-law. And remembering youth years, she decided to save her ex-husband and the lover from prison. He faced eight years in prison for bribery, public housing fraud and attempted scientific fraud. The hired lawyer was tearing his hair out, but could not contest Chichiko’s initial testimony, recorded on paper and tape.
Chichiko’s ex-wife, Tamara, had a brother, who at that moment served as the prosecutor of the Republic. And Tamara met with her brother.
“I beg you, help,” she said, “So many years have passed, the grievances must be forgotten. We have grown children, they need a father and mother. Help me restore my family.”
“Okay,” answered the prosecutor-brother, “Although if I were you, I would wish otherwise, but I promise, your ex-husband will leave the courtroom a free man.”
“You have no idea how grateful I am to you,” Tamara said, “I always knew that you were a principled person, but I also knew that our family is more humane than many others…”
A week later the sentencing took place.
The judge read out a brief description of the case, then the confession of the accused, and then, after whispering with two jurors, announced the verdict,
“The defendant Kartvelidze is found guilty of the following articles and is sentenced to eight years in prison to be served in a maximum security colony.”
Tamara did not hear the last words. There was a noise in her head, and she fell unconscious to the floor.
* * *
Chichiko served eight years. The professor and doctor of science spent most of his time working as an orderly-janitor in a prison hospital. His wife Tamara died on the day of the verdict in a city hospital from a cerebral hemorrhage. Chichiko’s children emigrated to America, where he arrived later, having been freed. But his days there were numbered…
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