Excerpt from Hard by a Great Forest by Leo Vardiashvili, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

His efforts to buy us a mother turned frantic. Tense telephone conversations, sometimes Georgian and sometimes broken English, muffled by a closed door and often cut short by the angry boom of Irakli's voice.

We found strange clues around the house. Phone cords ripped from sockets, strange dents in the plasterwork, red bank letters ripped up and stuffed under the sofa, and the faint shrapnel left behind by crockery smashed and hurriedly cleaned up.

"Clumsy Da" was all he'd say. "Clumsy, clumsy me."

We didn't understand it then, but we do now. Irakli was trying everything to buy Eka's freedom. And he was failing.

"Where's Eka?" We didn't want to ask, but we couldn't help it.

"I'm working on it, boys."

Almost a year after our arrival in London, we started school, and that cost money. The old washing machine broke that same winter and that cost money. Irakli dropped a cinder block on his toes and for a lean two months he couldn't work. That cost a lot of money. Some money did make it to Eka, but never enough. Things back in Georgia cost money too. And so it went.

Over the next six years, we lost Eka piecemeal. We lost her to gas bills and groceries, bus passes and pencil cases, books and school uniforms.

Irakli's promise slowly curdled until we finally got the call on a sunny January morning. Eka's dead. We breathed a guilty little sigh of relief. There was no need to ask anymore. Irakli could stop promising us lies. As we inched our way through a clammy, snowless British winter, someone turned the volume down on him. He'd drift into the room, look around, and leave without saying anything. He'd watch TV with disconnected eyes, coffee mug grown cold in his hand. The crockery stopped disappearing.

Our da aged a decade that winter, right in front of our eyes. Relief spiked with guilt shocked all his hair gray. We never once saw him cry, but he often rushed out of the room on some sudden errand.

"Ever been struck by lightning, my friend?" he'd say if you met him back then.

Crazy Eastern European, you'd think—a fever glint in his eyes and an odd accent you couldn't place.

"There's more chance of being struck by lightning than meeting a Georgian outside of Georgia."

Maybe you'd offer a polite laugh.

"Did the calculations myself." He'd tap his temple. "You're very lucky, my friend."

His eyes would gleam.

"But you're ve‑ery unlucky too."

He'd wait for you to ask why.

"Because the odds of winning the lotto are much better. You could have been a millionaire, my friend. Instead, you met me."

He'd laugh, loud and from the heart. You would too.

"Let me pour you a drink, to apologize."

Excerpted from Hard by a Great Forest by Leo Vardiashvili. Copyright © 2024 by Leo Vardiashvili. Excerpted by permission of Riverhead Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.