The director of the Russian theater in Tbilisi dispelled the myths about Kikabidze’s attitude towards Russia

Buba has a high title of a Tbilisi citizen, and this is a caste

Nikolai Sventitsky, Director of the Russian Drama Theater named after. Griboyedov in Tbilisi, he has known Vakhtang Kikabidze all his life. And now I am shocked by the news that my friend is no more. He told MK about the last year of the legendary artist’s life, explained what is true and what is a lie about him.

– A shock, because the day before yesterday Buba was talking about me to my friend in the hospital, telling how we lived. And I was going to visit him next week. This is a person close to me. I knew him from childhood. Youth passed together.

– Nikolai Nikolaevich, despite the changed relations between our countries, Vakhtang Kikabidze continued to be loved in Russia. But his image is formed, frankly, not very favorable.

– Listen, everything that was said and written about him, associating it with politics, is nonsense. His conflict with Russia is out of thin air. He never ate someone else’s bread, as he was reproached. But he was set up, and that’s the truth. Five years ago, in Batumi, at his anniversary, he said from the stage: “Since there are a lot of Russian people in the hall, I will speak Russian. And he sang in Georgian and Russian. And Gordon jumped onto the stage and began to shout “Glory to Ukraine!” Buba himself was in shock: he had an anniversary, and then Gordon staged a provocation. He missed Russia. The Russian people never scolded. Didn’t shout slogans. I could sing for free. He loved Russians very much and there was no concert where he would not sing in Russian or Russian songs. He is a Tbilisi man, an intellectual, and Tbilisi a priori does not scold any people. Tbilisi is a caste, and not everyone can be called that way.

– In connection with the illness, which, according to various sources, lasted from 10 to 20 years, Vakhtang Konstantinovich worked little or left his job altogether?

– That’s another lie about Booba. How did it not work? In my theater, opposite my office, there is a small rehearsal room. He constantly came there, prepared new songs to record them. Yes, he had a severe form of nephritis, dialysis two or three times a week. And he loved life despite the blows of fate: he lost his wife, friends, Russia moved away from him. But he was never bedridden. Well, yes, not the first freshness, but he came to the theater, in November, on my birthday, they discussed with him how we would celebrate his 85th birthday – he should have had it on July 19th. They said that a large tour should be prepared for different countries and, of course, the traditional Batumi-Tbilisi route. Yes, he could calmly pop a glass of vodka, and you say recumbent. Maybe with half a year only as he became less active.

– I’m not talking about it. You really are better than anyone else knows.

– They lie that he was lying down, that he was dying of hunger and that he did not work, too, a complete lie.

There is nothing to talk about here. A filigree storyteller – that’s what you need to remember – he had a gift from God. Whatever they talked about, even about nuclear physics, he always had a story on the topic. I remember how an oligarch alone invited stars from Russia to Baku for the birthday of his five or six-year-old grandson. And Buba was called from Tbilisi. Buba sang “My years are my wealth …”. Got my five thousand dollars. Is sitting. A boy runs past, who has a birthday. Buba stops him: “Boy, did you like the way I sang?” – “I liked it,” the boy says, “Then go tell your grandfather.” And so Buba sang eleven more songs. And when the next day the oligarch and his family came to see the stars off at the airport, he asked his granddaughter to say something in Russian. “Now you know Russian well,” grandfather smiled contentedly. And the kid gave out: “So that the earth rests on you.”

And Buba had tens of thousands of such stories. His very life is made up of stories. A storehouse of humor: sitting at the table with him, even if there was only coffee on the table, was a pleasure. He talks and everyone falls off their chairs. A person whom everyone knew, respected, revered. And he, for all that, without delusions of grandeur. My janitor come up and talk to him. This is where the love of the people comes from. He is an important part of my life. How to continue without him, I do not understand. Everyone doesn’t understand.