Rada, the protagonist of the book is a journalism student. Nobody pays attention to her, people make a mock of her and to get herself noticed, she resorts to dirty tricks. Rada is adept at finding things out and instigating scandals. Under the name of The Girl on High Heels, she writes articles about the secret life of different people at the University. Andria, the most popular boy at the University, often injures Rada’s pride and she makes up her mind to teach him a lesson. The story of hatred soon turns into a true war. Because of Rada’s evil article her classmate makes suicide. All those secrets, enmity, passion, falsehood and betrayal... Rada leaves Tbilisi and moves to London where a new story begins. How to weigh the sense of guilt? What are the things to be done or not to be done to save our own selves? The Confession on the Palm is about human nature, mistakes, repentance, hope, struggle for happiness and love... It’s about the search for the purpose of life, the search for yourself and your soul mate... Anyone who reads this book may find himself in it.

Cover of the original novel was designed by a world-known Georgian artist Nino Morbedadze. 


EXTRACT

If not for my mother, I’d never wake up early in the morning (that sweetest sound of my wake-up call). I opened up my eyes when I heard her calling me for at least the hundredth time.

The first thing I saw was the bluishly scribbled sheet of paper and then looked around the cluttered room. I raised my head from the cushion heavily and read what I’d written at night. It was good.

“Nina! Nina!” I called but my mother didn’t answer. “Mum!”

“Are you calling me, Rada?” She hated when I called her by name.

“Will you make some coffee for me?”

“You’d better come down yourself... It’s no problem for a young girl to make coffee…”

“That means you won’t…”

“Wait! The water hasn’t boiled yet…”

Five minutes later Nina was in, with a cup of coffee in her hand. She glanced around the room and resentfully observed:

“Haven’t tided up your room yet…”

“As you can see, dear mum”.

“I’m not going to clean it anymore. Do whatever you want…”

“OK”, I said and, giving her a kiss on the cheek, took my coffee. “There’s some washing under the bed…”

Ninachka began to grumble but I didn’t listen to her: With my coffee in one hand and the papers in another, I sat down on a window sill and read what I had written at night. (See PDF)

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