Fate... be damned

Chapter XII

June 1981(Excerpt)

1PM Wednesday

The room was large, of polished stone, ornate and well lit by the sun streaming through several floor-to-ceiling windows. The nine men -- each an acknowledged leader in their Alazani River region -- were seated in high-backed chairs carved to match the beautifully crafted wooden table. The men ranged in age from young, perhaps twenty, to old, perhaps eighty. Their collective countenance was solemn, staid, contemplative. They'd spent the past hours in earnest discourse regarding the recent activity in their eastern region, activity none would accept, none could condone, activity their party must at the very least acknowledge as a threat to their honor, indeed, to their cause.

Davit addressed them. "We have together long embraced the spirit of our homeland. We have long endured the menace of the Russian armies from the north, who have crossed our mountains to make trouble for our people, to take our vines, our land, our oil, even our people they have taken, our families. We have together won many battles and our people return now to find their peace. Our country's leaders now speak with the Americans and with others who are willing to stand together with us. These are times for men of strength to stand against those who wish to find only ways to fill their greed. They cross our mountains and travel in our valleys to carry their weapons, their drugs, and their many evils. From the north and from the south they bring their trouble to the towns and villages of our valley. They are among our people. We must find them and show them they are not welcome. They have with their bombs spread my home across the land of my father. They seek to make such trouble that we are weakened. They attack the leaders of our cause, you are these leaders, my comrades, you must watch in your own village that you are kept safe. In Akhmeta, we will take our action, we will find these men who harbor our enemies and they will feel our justice. Comrades, we must be strong together, our trouble will be great and we must be prepared in our villages to protect our people. The spirit of our fathers lives to fight this evil, we must be the strength in their spirit, we must stand with our fathers."

4PM Wednesday

Davit collected his daughter and her guest at the appointed time and place. As he led them to the inn, he told them, "It is a place as special as our mountains, as rich in its abundance, and as full of life as our people." Underway, Standish and Natia shared the findings of their day. Davit told them he'd had "critical discussions regarding the greatness of our homelands." Standish wondered if those critical discussions had anything to do with the previous night's explosion, but he thought better of pressing at the time. They reached the entrance to the inn and were greeted once again by an elaborately designed wrought iron sign that hung above the door, proudly proclaiming the feast within. Its carved wooden letters spelled Mosavali -- Harvest.

Not unlike in the Lamb's Cloth, the room was filled with the scents and sounds that Standish was coming to acknowledge as typical of a Georgian inn -- laughter, loud greetings, louder toasts, succulent aromas wafting across the space, and music. They were led to a long table and seated on a wooden bench, as before, shoulder-to-shoulder with jovial guests raucously awaiting their fare. Wine was poured, bread and cheese presented, and their order taken.

As the meal progressed, Standish looked to Natia for a sign. He hoped she might find some way to begin the discussion, to open the door for Standish to begin the story of their plans. He wanted to plant the seed and then discuss it further over the next days. He had become comfortable with Davit, a kind and generous man, but he was unsure of his response to someone asking for the hand of his daughter. He was understandably nervous.

The sign came in the form of Natia requesting that they be seated at a table near the back of the room, a private table, which Standish later came to learn was reserved for just such occasions -- weddings, funerals, christenings, matters of great significance. Davit was not in the least surprised by Natia's request for such a table. He'd noticed Standish's attempts to draw Natia's attention. He felt a degree of suspicion might be in order and played the part. "So, my young Standish, my honored guest, we must speak of matters that play on the soul, eh?"

Standish, less relaxed than he'd hoped under the circumstances, did his best to rise to the occasion. "Mr. Burduli, it will not be a surprise to you that I am very much attracted to your daughter."

Davit continued to goad and tease. "Ah, my friend Standish, that is her curse. Natia must only walk among the people and she will find attraction more than she can bear, eh? Such a woman as my Tia is not a common sight. I think you agree, yes?"

"Yes sir, she is a rare find indeed. I agree, but you see, Mr. Burduli ..."

Davit, knowing he'd played his role almost long enough to cause Standish undue hardship -- after all, he knew full well what was coming -- interrupted with, "And now twice you formalize me. You call me Mr. Burduli, my Standish. I fear there is more in your mind than in your mouth, eh? You must tell me what trouble it is you wish to have me know!"

"Trouble? Sir, I don't want to tell you about any trouble. I want to tell you that I am ... well ... not attracted to Natia. I mean of course I am attracted to her, but what I want to tell you is that I want her to come to America. I want Natia to be my wife. And sir, I would like to ask for your blessing." He'd gone well beyond planting the seed; he was reaping the crop.

Then, more in earnest than in character, Davit stood and spread his arms wide. He looked from Standish to Natia and back to Standish. Then loudly, above the clamor that filled the inn, he proclaimed in his native Georgian to all present that:

"I, Davit Tarasovich Burduli, son of Vianor Tarasovich Davit Burduli and a proud son of the people of Georgia, and above all, the most honored father of a daughter of our homeland, do now with reverence accept and bless with the graciousness deserving of a gift to my house, young Standish Langdon, a man who has traveled far to honor his passion and pursue his future, a proud and worthy man that now asks for the hand of my most beloved daughter ... Natia Ana Maria Burduli. To this man, I say, welcome to my home, and may the promises of your life be defined by your love for my daughter."

Standish understood only because he felt Davit's emotion. When Natia reached across the table to take his hand, he was sure that what he felt was real; Davit was formally announcing the acceptance of his request, was surrendering his daughter to Standish's care, was offering his most precious gift for Standish to shelter, to protect, to honor, to love.

The inn erupted in loud proclamations, in stomping and clapping, and in the sounds of joyous, festive music. Standish and Natia were swept from their table and led to the center of the room to face each other. Natia understood the expectation and began to sway to the rhythm, looking at Standish with sparkling eyes that bespoke the love she felt. Standish mirrored her movements, completely entranced by what he was feeling -- the rhythm of the room, Natia's unbelievable beauty, the sounds that pulsed through his body, the absolute ecstasy of the moment. The crowd pressed upon them. The couple embraced, their kiss full and passionate, and the dance of life began.

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