Devil-may-care

‘Danger! Do not enter!’ An old floorboard scrunched. I drew back a thick velvet curtain of the rich ruby color – the same as Georgian wine - and stepped forward.
In a while I got used to darkness and started recognize rows of seats in one of the world’s oldest cinemas. Apollo was opened in Tbilisi in 1909 and hasn’t seen guests for almost hundred years. A white sheet of the screen was showing up out of the darkness as a mysterious entrance to another world – the world of aristocratic Georgians of the beginning of the XX century.
It was the place, where cinema for the first time reached the rebellious Caucasus region, in a short period of peace between the war-hit XIX century and the revolution of 1917, followed by establishment of Soviet power. The magic of moving images came to Georgia just in time to conquer proud mountain people with no shots and no blood, but only with a movie projector.
It was still here, covered with a thick layer of dust. I looked through a tiny window above it, observing decayed art nouveau decorations. A long patch of fresh white plaster was going up to the ceiling.
- Would you like to see paintings of my wife? – a middle-aged man in an expensive suit asked me.
I nodded. I met him 15 minutes ago, when I was standing outside Apollo, gazing at its exteriors hidden by scaffolding and not even dreaming about getting inside.
- I bought the building – I heard, when the door suddenly opened – It is going to be an art-gallery, but it hasn’t opened yet. I’m hosting a little party tonight. Only for friends. Are you invited?
I wasn’t. The man could read it from my abashment. He smiled and offered to come in. After a brief excursion he led me into a hall with the paintings. Among them there was a glass cube.
- It’s a project of my friend, - my attendant said – he will do renovation of Apollo too.
Inside the cube there was a model of a modern steel building, dominating over Old Tbilisi. Ancient Narikala fortress, medieval churches and houses with ornate balconies were replaced with schematic blocks. Faceless and pale in comparison to original, this plastic Tbilisi made me feel sick.
I hurryingly said goodbye and left. Outside I leaned the wall to take breath and groped a shaggy edging of a wide crack. This wrinkle on the face of old Tbilisi, this line on its palm was an essential part of the city’s identity. It hasn’t been filled with a fresh plaster. Yet.
I flattened myself against the wall. In my mind I was bidding farewell to Apollo.