Heorgian Family Poem by Yurii Andrukhovych

Kikabidze, she said, firmly,
His name was Kikabidze.

What a ridiculous idea - to buy a prostitute a beer
at 2 a.m.,
pretending to be a businessman from the Baltic States
on delegation in Kiev!

On the other hand - what a chance
to listen to what these people know
about the country they live in,
about those who will never live in it,
about those who won't be able to live at all.

They killed him, she tells me,
he stuck his nose into lots of things,
he was the best journalist
in our country.

I can't correct her mistake,
I can't know how it really was,
what his name really was.

I just want to believe in my own lie:
I am a businessman from the Baltic States
(yes, a businessman from the Baltic States!),
and all day long
in this country
I've got to sign contracts, drink to them,
down coffee, Cognac, sip Atenol,
send faxes and text messages
to get out of here all the sooner
and back to my Riga.

And she
repeats and repeats:

Kikabidze,
Kikabidze was his name.