«I am Lado Makleshvili.» A Georgian writer touchingly recounted his friendship with Karatkevich and his tragedy.
Yesterday, November 26th, was the 95th anniversary of the birth of the classic of Belarusian literature, Vladimir Korotkevich, and in connection with this, social networks were filled with various mentions of him. Some quoted poems and other works, some talked about the influence of the writer's work on the formation of their own personality, some of the older generations recalled personal meetings. And literary critic Yazep Yanushkevich published on Facebook previously unpublished memories of Korotkevich by his Georgian friend and classmate Otia Ioseliani (1930-2011). The memoirs were sent to Minsk back in the 1980s, but for certain reasons lay in a desk drawer for more than 35 years.
Vladimir Korotkevich
For someone who knew Vladimir Korotkevich—a multifaceted personality, simultaneously sad and bright—it will not be easy to write about him, no matter how skilled a wordsmith one may consider oneself. Volodya's portrait requires colors of such purity and sadness that are unlikely to be found on an artist's palette.
The complexity of his personality needed to be guessed and recognized behind the enviable simplicity and childlike spontaneity, so as not to mistake him only for a naive, responsive publicist and a capable poet, but to discern the wisdom, bottomless melancholy, and piercingly painful patriotism. […]
I have never met a person so selflessly in love with their homeland. It was this dazzling love that brought us together, like a bright flame that rises above his tall, elegant figure.
I emphasize this circumstance because, had this pure flame not attracted me (it is clearly visible from afar), I do not know what else could have brought us together. (It's hard to say what he himself found in me; perhaps what Akaki Tsereteli said: "The heart recognizes a friend...").
And it is difficult for me because when I arrived in Moscow in 1959 for the Higher Literary Courses, Volodya was already in his second year. Neither I nor Volodya were particularly close even to our own classmates, those who had been around for two years, let alone students from a parallel course. Since then, I have been wondering and cannot explain to myself why I loved this person so much? […]
I am sure that if someone else could love their homeland like him, that would be enough for a spiritual community... For brotherhood... […]
He was constantly consumed by love for his homeland. (This was especially noticeable in Moscow). And he also bowed before my homeland.
He knew Georgian poetry so well that I rediscovered some of our poets when he asked me to read their works aloud in the original. And, despite not knowing the language, through versification, rhythm, rhyme—musicality and his infallible poetic flair—he grasped the depth of Georgian poetry, which is inevitably lost even in the best translation. […]
I so mercilessly mangle and break the Russian language that listeners cover their ears. But we had something to talk about! (He didn't need to be told what was on your heart). We spent many evenings until midnight in conversation, and there was always something left to say!
I do not belong to those who "drink" (in Georgia, traditionally, drunkenness is unacceptable, and I am a staunch defender of traditions), lest anyone think that revelry helped our closeness. (Although even then Volodya was not inclined to "libations").
When he knocked on my door—I would ask: who's there? (I was writing a lot then and didn't open the door to everyone). In response, he would smile, answering: "I am Lado Makleshvili" (That's how he translated his name and surname into Georgian: "short" - "makle," "vich" - "shvili"). Lado Makleshvili was the only one in the world for whom my doors were always open.
When he happened to be tipsy, you could only guess it by the way he hugged, spreading his arms, and kissed. […]
We did not imagine that we were parting for many years. We couldn't just settle in Moscow, could we?.. We consoled ourselves with the thought that we would meet often; he would come to Georgia, I—to Belarus with creative reports. But complex and chaotic life did not spoil us.
In 1975, he reported that he was going to Gagra with his wife (with the wife he loved so much!... After the almost simultaneous death of his mother and wife, he could not escape the clutches of grief and anguish). Of course, I immediately went to him. When we finally quenched the joy of meeting and caught our breath, I said reproachfully:
— Lado, what does your behavior look like! Why haven't you come for so long? (we agreed that he would come to Georgia first).
Volodya smiled his broad, captivating, all-encompassing smile, which resembles the blooming of a peach:
"My dear! Forgive me, but first I had to do something for my people that would give me the right to meet you..." - and handed me a thick - 40 sheets, 637-page book. It was a novel that deeply reveals the historical fate of the Belarusian people - "Ears Under Your Sickle" […]
It was my turn to go to Belarus. But my tangled life did not allow me to do it in a timely manner.
In 1983, I was invited to Latvia, to the 60th anniversary of my translator Peter Peterson - a playwright and director. On the way back, I went through Belarus to see Volodya.
I did not recognize my fair-faced friend Lado Makleshvili. How darkened his radiant eyes were, and what an incurable melancholy nested in them. Even the fleeting smile during our meeting did not adorn his swollen face. He and the joyful smile parted forever.
In recent years, after various life tragedies, eaten away, radiated by sadness, he drowned his sorrow in wine. How unlike he was to that lanky, sparkling Belarusian who spread his arms to the whole world, to the bright-faced poet, thanks to whom I loved not only him, but also his homeland, his people.
We spent that day and that night together. I started talking about an imminent meeting, but he only shook his head; probably for the first time in the years of our friendship, he did not agree with me.
I arrived in Minsk a year later for a meeting - a "round table" of writers writing about the war. Of course, from the station I first of all called Volodya. A woman answered.
"Where is my friend?" I asked. Her voice faltered (I think it was Volodya's sister). I realized that Lado Makleshvili would never answer me again. But how to believe such an assumption?! I couldn't hang up and shouted:
— Volodya! Volodya Korotkevich! Where is my Volodya?
— In the cemetery... - I heard through women's tears.
Together with Volodya's friends, we went to the cemetery. I was carrying a heavy load - nine red carnations. […]
It is difficult for me to speak and write about Volodya, because I know that I cannot get rid of the feeling of sadness and loss enough not to infect the reader and listener with them. And that would be wrong: today people have enough of their own sorrows and there is no need to burden them with new ones. One must be able not to burden others with one's pain.