The Spinning of the Dial  is a short story by young author Nestan Kvinikadze which is included in her collection Herself. A total crisis prevailed in the country at the time of the civil and Abkhaz wars, with tens of thousands of people left homeless. A large part of the population began to drain from the country. A new wave of emigration brought new problems: telecommunication, the civilized means of which were completely destroyed, was a necessity. At that time, several pseudo-post offices appeared in the capital where the population could call abroad illegally. The plot of The Spinning of the Dial takes place in just such a post office. The hero of the story is a teenage girl in love who visits a pseudo-post office to get into contact with her beloved. It is a place where, like her, people of various sex, age and status connect to family members. It is here that a jigsaw puzzle puts itself together and creates a harsh picture of the 1990s.

Translated into English by Guranda Anchabadze

THE ROTATING DISC, PARNASSUS APOLLOS AND THE JACKSONS

During the last week I have felt like LaToya Jackson, the one who has the super star brother; his not talented sister who perpetually undermined the aspirations of the 80’s.

Day One:

We arrived in Racha, the village of Tsola… a wooden house, locked and hardly furnished. There were six of us. We split up the work and started to clean the rooms and garden.

Quite honestly, I really have no idea why people connect past experiences with current situations, but being surrounded by these mountains I remember one specific time and story.

The war had just ended. Our mentality was changing… It was extremely dif-ficult and very expensive to call abroad since more than one million people had left the country.

My friend told me that I would now have to call “out” frequently and he would show me the place where I could make calls at half-price. He pointed toward a pri-vate house on Ateni Street, where a lady had an “illegal hotline” and the residents left on this side of the border could call abroad.

The waiting area looked similar to a Soviet style foyer; a few chairs, armchairs and a coffee table. At that time only houses in two of the city quarters had the luxury of central heating and this house was one of them. Everyone was waiting; men, women and youngsters, all who wanted to call.

Unexpectedly, the door on my left opened and a middle-aged woman came out and announced: “America callers later on. Germany come in.” Her name was Naniko, the owner and switchboard lady, over forty, curled hair and nicely dressed.

Usually the first time is probably hard for everyone. The number of people around makes one feel uncomfortable and I was no exception. I wanted to ask what I was to do, but that thought was interrupted by two men gesturing me to an armchair. I sighed with relief, sat down and found myself staring at the wall.

“I am afraid of water,” one of them said, looking at me. Confused, I smiled back.

“Oh, me too, I can’t get into the water without a life-saver,” added the other. I guessed that they were close, in their late thirties, fashionably dressed and socia-ble. One of them had long hair... (See PDF)


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