Waiting for the Electricity by Christina Nichol Page B

and watermelon juice ran down his chin. “Georgia has the sweetest watermelons I’ve ever had,” he said. “I’d like to take back some of these seeds to plant.”
     
    “Do you have a cow?” Mr. Fax asked.
    “Beg your pardon?”
    “You need good cow compost for this kind of watermelon,” Vakhtang contributed.
    “Okay, cow compost,” Anthony said, writing it in his notebook.
    “Do you really want to know how?” I asked him. I told him I had some watermelon seeds from Kakheti if he wanted them, and that it’s better to burn the place where you will plant the seeds in order to get rid of the roots. “Plant them indoors in cellophane first. That way when you plant them outdoors you trick them because you can cut the plastic with a knife so carefully, without disturbing them, without them knowing.”
    “Tricky. Tricky,” Mr. Fax said.
    “Stop watering the watermelons when they are big and the leaves dry up,” I said.
    “Then you wait. You wait for the watermelons to sweeten,” said Vakhtang.
    “Eat some more watermelon, please,” Mr. Fax said. “Now, let’s talk about apples.”
    But Fax’s secretary peered her head around the doorframe and told Fax that the shipping captain from Odessa had arrived.
    “Why don’t you take Anthony into my office? Treat him with some wine from my village,” Fax told me.
    In the hall Anthony stopped to photograph the hat rack piled with sailor caps. I told him, “My boss is going to try to sell all those Ukrainians a Georgian flag so they can maneuver their ships in and out of customs more easily.” I pointed at the bookcases. “He is also trying to renovate.”
    In Fax’s office I opened the cupboard, saw the bottle of wine from his village and a bottle of brandy. I chose the brandy and poured some of it into a cup.
    “Now, tell me, do you think our law firm looks like modern civilization?”
    “Modern enough.”
    I noticed that Anthony wasn’t drinking his alcohol. “This willhelp you understand us better,” I said, pushing the brandy closer to him. “Go on. Drink it. I am afraid I have not been a good enough host,” I said. “I wish I could offer you more.”
    Anthony laughed. “You served me a huge feast, sold your house, whatever the joke was.”
    “No, really we should have welcomed you with an orchestra.”
    Anthony laughed.
    “It’s been done before. Really. If only I could go to England.”
    “I believe you wouldn’t like it. We aren’t as hospitable there.”
    “No, I meant that then I could be your host there.” I turned on the computer and waited for it to warm up. “My website isn’t attracting very many clients,” I told him. I opened the page (www.blackseatrading.org.ge). “Do you have any aesthetic suggestions for me? I am trying to appeal to business investors.” I showed him what we were advertising:
    GEORGIAN FLAGS
    MATERIAL : Polyester
    FLAGPOLE MATERIAL : Plastic
    STYLE : Flying
    USAGE : Advertising and Customs Patrol
    Also: “We have immediate supply of Greenleaf tea. Georgia’s finest elite. Full bodied malt flavor, (bright and bubble varieties). We have large quantities.”
    Also: “At this time we can provide airplane scrap metal from L-29 piece by piece. Minimum units: one. Maximum units per week: seven.”
    He looked at the two pictures of oil tankers, at the Georgian and American flag entwined, and the caption that read. “Bridging Nations.” He read the quote on the bottom, “We feed our horses on wolves’ meat.”
    “Georgians are quite taken with this warrior mentality,” Anthony said. “This manly-man complex.”
    “What?” I said. “This is not about warriors. Don’t you know it’s impossible to feed horses on wolves’ meat? They eat grain. But wehave to do what is impossible. Our society is so corrupt that the only hope is to go against the current. We need to find foreign investors for our country but no business wants to risk coming to Georgia because it won’t benefit them financially, at