ADIBAS
Novel
Bakur Sulakauri Publishing 2009
11X17
198 pages
ISBN: 9789941150906

ADIBAS

BURCHULADZE ZAZA

Zaza Burchuladz’s novel is set in Tbilisi in August 2008 during the Russian-Georgian conflict. Even though there is not a single combat scene in the novel, the war is nowhere and yet everywhere. The war is raging in the background of the country, Russian fighter planes are thundering overhead, atrocities are being committed and yet in Tbilisi there is no difference between the real and the fake, for some, the falling bombs cause no more impact than a slight ripple moving through the purified water of their swimming pools, or the rattling of a spoon in their cappuccino cups. Adibas is a drastic satire of urban Bohemia in a globalised world, filtered through the bleary and cynical mind of Shako - a journalist famed for his appearance in Georgian Pepsi ads - describing the progressive falsification of his life, invaded by consumer goods, consumer sex, and consumer carnage. The author using his extraordinary writing skills creates certain contrasts of sex and war - describing one with extreme naturalism and the second with surrealistic approach and thus making them in fact two main heroes of his novel. According to some critics key message of Adibas - extends well beyond the boarder of Georgia and anatomizes the Western world’s ongoing “feast in a time of plague.” 


EXTRACT

Translated into English by Guram Sanikidze

adibas – 1. fake adidas;
2. surrogate or imitation in general;
3. any fake or falsified thing, situation or fact, etc.

01. MORNING MULTIMEDIA

Bobo can do anything. She cooks pasta fabulously, has seen all the seasons of Lost, and drives me crazy the way she sucks; she does it elaborately, with great care.
Bobo. At the bare mention of the name her firm nipples, cream-rubbed body, slender waistline and dexterous tongue loom before my eyes. I lay in bed alone. The cell phone shows half past nine. I slept two hours longer beyond usual time. All I remember from my dream is that my brain was shining like a light bulb and colored sparks were racing through its convolutions the way signals flash through a fiber-optic cable.
A glass of pasteurized milk is on the nightstand at my bed, a plate with a pill of Centrum and a croissant are next to the glass. The way I figure it out is that this will become my morning diet in the near future. Did I really sleep so tight that I couldn’t hear Bobo get up, get dressed and run down for the croissant?
As soon as I reach for the croissant, Aphex jumps up on the bed, wags the tail fast: right and left–the picture is blurred. He licks my face, too, trying to stick his dry warm tongue through into my lips, sort of long time no see. I know the way he counterfeits joy. All he wants to get from me is just the croissant. He lies down on my chest, fawningly looking into my eyes.
‘Fuck off’, I say. ‘And now!’
He sneaks away dismally, head down, tail between legs, sits on Bobo’s pillow, looking fixedly at the croissant. He’s got really big watery eyes, just like Amélie from the movie Amélie. He wants to snatch the croissant from my hand, dares not do it though. I feel for him. This croissant is the best in Tbilisi, baked in the newly opened bakery on the ground floor of the building I live in. Inside they put cherry jam, raisins, marzipan, chocolate, farmer cheese … and they are more than just croissants, they are Goldberg Variations performed by Gould.
Aphex looks hard into my eyes, trying to soften me up. To no avail though. His Lacrimosa doesn’t work today. We both figure out that he can’t goof me, so he wouldn’t get a crumb of it. The airy- soft bakery dough melts in my mouth, then slides down and warms up the inside of my belly... (See PDF)


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