Author : Mikheil Antadze
One hundred and one years ago, at the junction where the European motorway E-117 meets E-60 – yes, almost exactly one hundred and one years ago – a light two-seater Tarantas was driving along the road. A pair of horses, one white and one black. According to Baron Tornau, at that time, there were 479 such wagons in Tiflis. “It is like a covered cart in which nobles can sit,” said the lexicographer, and indeed, the most outstanding people traveled on these four-wheelers.
But, the coachman was a blockhead and a scoundrel. He was hungover, practically dying. Sweat trickled down his narrow forehead, then over his squinted eyes, and finally over his coal-black mustache. His face, already expressionless from drinking, was completely wiped out as he steered the horses without thinking.
The wagon nearly overturned in a turn due to his recklessness. The alarmed white horse jumped aside, almost derailing the cart. The coachman quickly regained control of the situation. Everything happened in an instant, and the elderly passengers felt nothing more than the usual jolt.
However, the coachman, still suffering from a hangover, was startled. When he realized that he and the passengers were safe, he took off his hat and sat on the seat with his hat raised in his hand.
It was at this moment that he witnessed a strange sight for the first time: iron monsters approaching him with a roar on the road. He was shocked – the surroundings filled with the thunderous noise of huge metal dragons lined up one after another.
But the godless man didn’t even have time to cross himself; he sat there with his hat in his hand. Only then did it occur to him to look at the passengers. The elderly sat quietly, and the poor man realized that he alone was seeing this horror.
The flickering, roaring creatures were terrifying. They were split the hot air with their huge beaks..... the heads of swallowed humans sticking out of their open throats. Dark green skulls were glistening pitifully in the sun.
But instead two words flashed through the senseless mind of the coachman: white fever. He had heard of it, had heard that it was caused by continuous drunkenness. That’s what he had heard, otherwise how could an uneducated man know that delirium is a psychosis related to alcohol abstinence, provoking nightmares, devils .... loss of ability to orientate oneself in time and surroundings.... slurred speech – as with the intake of tranquillizers,neuroleptics and barbiturates... “Voices” that berate, threaten, laugh, demand that he be punished and even killed..... paranoia. looking for the enemy in everyone around him. Because of this, he can do unexpected things.
He continued on his way. “Blockhead, blockhead, you are yourself” haunted him from childhood; he was called a blockhead by his peers, and his response was always, “Blockhead, you are yourself.” As he got older, if he was in a bad mood, he would attack whoever said “blockhead” and bite them in the face. Once, he almost bit off Mitra’s nose.
But, they remained friends. He spent those days in Tiflis, drinking vodka with Mitra, the janitor Gora, and the tramp Vitaly. Then they arrived, he saw the commander, and received the order. He accepted it for many reasons; firstly, there was no chance not to accept it because...
His head was exploding with the echoes of the monsters that had just passed by.
But, the Tarantas continued on its way and he saw people running ahead screaming, strangely dressed, but yet undoubtedly Georgians. They were fleeing from danger and terror, from fire and enemy bullets.....
Blockhead glanced again at the elderly. No, they had not seen thousands of men, women and children at all. Evidently it was white fever again..... Hopelessness was the expression on their haggard faces.
But some of them looked at him with contempt, calling him threateningly “Blockhead, Blockhead” as they passed by. His heart bursting with fear, he urged his horses forward. But they did not disappear... He felt that next time on the road, he would encounter the fire that pursued these unfortunates. Here, the gates of the underworld opened, he thought, and the evil vision slowly disappeared.
The road ahead appeared calm, but the coachman’s anxiety did not subside. He anticipated the next ordeal, and indeed, a horde of miserable, sleek, dark green-headed imps emerged. Angry and fierce, they carried loot, stolen and plundered, speaking words resembling Russian. They brandished short rifles, unlike anything he had seen before. Where else would he have seen such things if not in the white fever of hot August?
Nevertheless, he passed through that as well. Lo and behold, he received the sign, reached the appointed place, stopped the wagon, and they rushed out of the forest to attack. The old man said something, the woman screamed. They shot, beat, killed, robbed, stole, threatened, and left.
He sat motionless, carefree, as if nothing had happened, stuck on the border of this and that world, in the euphoria of involuntary foresight, intimidated-captured by the Inferno, labelled or marked...
As ordered, he had to wait for someone. He waited. Finally, a constable, a policeman and the guards arrived..... they saw the terrible picture, looked round, then came up to him.... Well, tell us how it happened ... They were dark-skinned, they looked like Armenians, they beat me with rifle butts ... They lifted his clothes, saw that he wasn’t beaten, and realised that he was lying.... they realised. So the investigation was launched! Two years later, on the gallows, before his death, he would think for the thousandth time: How could I have said that, what happened to me. He will not have time to do it again and once again blame what happened on the white fever of August....
But instead...
