His wife, Nino, had died twelve years ago. She had been a dancer, her body a calligraphy of motion. In her last month, as cancer hollowed her out, she would whisper to him in a mix of French (her mother’s tongue) and Georgian (his father’s). "Papillon qartulad," she’d smiled once, delirious with fever. "A butterfly in Georgian. See? It flies even when the wings are dust."
Davit believed he was that man.
"It was in my grandfather’s chicken coop," the girl whispered. "He used it to press tobacco. Last week, he died. He told me, 'Take this to the crying man on Asatiani Street.'" papillon qartulad