THE MAKASHVILIS ARE FAMOUS FOR THEIR DREAMS, BUT EVERYONE, even Natasha, the Russian woman who worked at Batumi’s Central Telephone Office, knew that the Makashvilis did not necessarily make their dreams come true. Usually, whenever I came in to use the telephone, she would look at me with a peevish expression. When I could only hear static or her Russian I love you, Sergei! mafia music through the receiver, she shrugged. She never deviated from her condescending expression even though the strands of pale straw on the chair she sat on sometimes snapped. Not looking up from filing her nails, she would tell me to pay later. I only ever once saw her show a glint of arousal, when one day her boss lumbered in, reached into the pocket of his Western-style jeans, and asked her to take care of his gun. I had told them both, “I think you have watched too many Fellini films at the cinematography club.” But on January 31, at the Maritime Ministry of Law, I received a fax from the American embassy addressed to me.
What do You think about Waiting For The Electricity?
