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Los Angeles Times Valley Edition | Glendale News-Press | 2004 October 30
On two arguments and seven visions
BY PATRICK AZADIAN
Sergei Paradjanov's "Seven Visions" accompanied Shota to the cemetery every time.
Shota Kaladze considered himself an American, but felt a common bond with the mysterious Soviet-Armenian artist. The two men had been born in the Caucasian city of Tbilisi. Shota had made it his mission to read the scenarios of the Georgian-born master, until he made some sense of the complex literary scenarios.
On the snake-like Forest Lawn Drive, the paperback always occupied the passenger seat. As usual, it oscillated on the leather surface until it conquered the forces of friction and escaped into the crack in between the chair and the door. "Seven Visions" would be resting to prepare for an intense reading session by Shota at the park.
A moral dilemma had been on Shota's mind. His thoughts were occupied by a conversation he'd had with his favorite half-Georgian redhead, Endzela.
Endzela and Shota shared a somewhat similar ethnic background. She had been born in the Ukrainian city of Lvov to a Georgian father and a Russian mother. Just a few days ago, the two had been engaged in a conversation on why people do things for others. According to Endzela, people ultimately did things for themselves, and there was no room for altruism.
Endzela was passionate about her point of view: "I cannot believe some of the things I used to do for my ex-boyfriend. I used to comply without question. You know me; I am not the submissive type. Now, I realize I did all those things for myself. Doing things for him made me happy."
Shota's response was muted: "That's discomforting."
Endzela continued: "But it's true. Let's say, I am sick and call a friend for help. Either he will come and help, and in the process strengthen our friendship, or he doesn't want to come, but since he needs me as a friend, he will show up. Either way, he'll be doing it out of self interest."
Shota could not put his finger on what was wrong with the argument: "But there may be a third derivative. Let's say, your friend cares for you deeply, and you call him for help."
"Da." Endzela responded in Russian.
"And before he has time to process the information, and determine what is in his interest, he drops everything and comes to you."
Endzela had a response ready: "That sounds like love and I don't believe in it. If couples are lucky, love evolves into 'like and friendship' and if not, they end up with 'hate and resentment.' Yours is a special case..."
Shota continued: "I see some holes in your theory. Speaking of love, you know of Paradjanov?"
"Of course."
"He had a much more optimistic view on love. I think he wrote:
'I can compare you to satin,
But in time it wears out
I could compare you to a flower,
But it withers in an hour
I could compare you to a doe,
But then everyone would know
My words take wings like a dove,
What can I say o my love.' "
Endzela was rarely impressed: "He must've written that in the onset of a relationship. What most people call 'love,' I call infatuation."
"Coming back to my 'derivative,' when you care for someone, selves can be so intertwined that you don't give yourself time to figure out why you're doing certain things. The border between your own self interest and the other person's interests can become blurry. Do you know what your name means in Georgian?"
"Yes 'Snow drop.' I was a very pale but pretty child."
"And modesty is not one of your virtues, is it?"
"Sincerity is. Modesty is often a fake virtue."
"It's a pretty name; it goes with the face."
Shota pulled into the parking lot at the cemetery to review the choice of flowers. He rotated through the Snapdragon colors at each visit. He had already gone through white, red, orange, pink and yellow. It was the turn of lavender to rest its feathery weight on Mr. Kaladze. Shota eventually parked at curbside and began walking to his destination in a pattern of half-squares. He tried to avoid stepping over the gravestones. Armenian surnames had always caught his eyes during this short walk to chat with his father. He had always been fascinated with Georgia's southern neighbors. He was glad Mr. Kaladze was among old friends.
Shota threw down his blue towel, knelt down and began his report to his father: "I am doing well..."
His short briefing was followed by a reading from Paradjanov and concluded in a verse: "The poet is dead, but his muse lives on..."
On his way back home, Shota's thoughts snapped back to the half-Russian redhead. Why had he come to the cemetery? For whom? For whose benefit? He was only sure of one thing: He simply wanted to be there. He dialed Endzela: "Endzela?"
"Yes."
"It's Shota."
"Yes, I know."
"Can I get you to have coffee with me?"
"Yes, but come here. I'll make coffee. I've had a little accident, I can't leave the house."
"I'll be there in a few; what happened..."
Copyright 2004 Glendale News Press
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