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Ferekeeko Strikes Again!

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Coming home from my Georgian lesson, I got a second one for free, on individual responsibility.

On Chavchavadze Avenue again, in the Vake neighborhood, I’m busy furtively checking myself out in the shop windows when all of a sudden I see a beast of a man shove his petite wife, a shove such as two men do just before they throw punches at each other. She stops, drops her head and waits for the man, presumably her significant other, to grab her by the throat with his left hand. He holds her thus, screaming at the top of his lungs into her ear.

I have a big choice to make . . . and I decide, gutlessly, to keep walking and pretend that it doesn’t concern me. Taking a punch from some swarthy-souled cretin in the name of chivalry? — Ferekeeko, do not put the blame on me!

But another man walking towards me makes the right choice. In his sixties, of a slight build compared with the cretin, he seems to be on his way home from the shop. As soon as his eyes hit the couple, he acts. Snapping to attention he tells the cretin to take it easy — whereupon he, the cretin, angrily swings round on him.

Now I have a second chance to make the right choice, and this time, inspired by our hero, I stand firm. The blood rushes to my head and spurs a ringing in my ears. I clench my fists and wait to make sure that the cretin does not touch the good man. A few passers-by crane their necks to watch.

The cretin gets right in the man’s face and kicks up a loud fuss. I can’t make out any of their words. But sure enough, he doesn’t lay a finger on our hero and walks off with his whipping-girl in tow. In a few steps she catches up with him, and while walking abreast of each other the soft twilight tickles their slouching frames. Their gait slows but they don’t look back. 

Then our hero looks around to see who has been watching the scene. His eyes meet mine. I nod and shake my head in approval. He is visibly disgusted. And suddenly I wonder whether that disgust might actually be meant for me.
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