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chewing gum, drive to Siberia with a trunkful of grapes, and use the profits to repossess my uncle’s wine factory, which we’d lost during independence. We could follow in the tracks of my father and become drivers, and to be a driver was really a noble profession. We could give rides to widows for free. We could bring watermelons to the villages, and grain. I could help weave Georgia back together again into a network. “All right,” I had told Malkhazi that morning. “I’ll help you kidnap the Englishman.”
    I studied the pamphlet for tourists I had obtained from Batumi’s Center for Democracy. It said:
    Although kidnapping occasionally occurs in Georgia, it is only a significant risk in a few of the trouble-spots (notably Abkhazia and the Chechen border, and to a lesser extent in Svanetia and South Ossetia). Just as the intense nature of Georgian hospitality can sometimes feel like kidnapping, most reported cases of kidnapping in Georgia turn out to be less sinister than in other societies. Perhaps more dangerous are the driving habits. Georgia does not have an emergency road service .
    I began a new letter:
    Hillary, have you ever given much thought for our need of tow trucks?
    (Or, had she given much thought to the fact that our roads were so filled with potholes that even very good kidnappers of pipeline workers couldn’t make a fast action getaway plan while driving in a broken-down Lada being chased by the Georgian International Oil Association in their decrepit old Lada. No, not very exciting, not like that James Bond film about the oil pipeline.)
    More importantly Hillary, have you heard the story of our kurdi, our Georgian mafiosi? It’s a story we tell in the kitchen about how after 1917 Russian Revolution, Georgians went to Italy and started Italian mafia. It is long story with many son-of-this and son-of-that. We have no real kurdi left now, only kids playing kurdi to get drugs, not to start a furniture business or something useful to support themselves. I worry that my little brother Zuka is spending time on the street with the imitation kurdi, the drug dealers. My mother is all the time complaining about this. But now is new trend. Real kurdi can’t have diploma; they must acquire all their knowledge on their own. They hate communism so much they won’t even eat the red Jell-O on top of a torte. They can’t kill anyone for selfish reasons and they can’t get married because they would be away from the house too much since they spend most of their lifetime in jail. They are the lawmakers of jail, the wise men. My friend Malkhazi is trying to revive old kurdi traditions but he is already a nobleman. He doesn’t need this new profession. This is why I ask you to understand us. Please don’t believe what you see on TV. If you soon see his face or mine on the news for criminal activity, it is probably only state sponsored communist propaganda. Or else it is only a joke .
    As always, respecting your way ,

Slims Achmed Makashvili
    In the courtyard in front of our block, the usual assortment of men clad in their felt mountain caps were huddled under the eaves because the empty fuel canisters in the yard were too wet to sit on. One man bellowed up to his sister to throw down some change. A low voice rose out of the huddle at me, “Slims Achmed! Modi ak! ” But I waved aside the invitation to drink with them. “We are having a guest,” I announced. They nodded and then turned their attention back to our neighbor Soso, who had just returned from his village and was expounding on how to steal electricity without getting electrocuted.
    My little brother Zuka was asleep on the sofa. “Get up,” I said. “You make the chaadi and I’ll try to fix the electricity.”
    Since Zuka sculpts icons in his spare time, and icons and bread are the same—flesh-of-Christ, etc.—Zuka is our designated chaadi maker. Zuka is also the family doctor, ever since he found a blood pressure pump washed up by the sea.