Part 4 — On Our Wedding Anniversary, I Boarded Her Flight, but After the Captain’s Announcement Marika’s Smile Disappeared

The man’s voice broke off, but the last words remained in the cabin for a long time.

“The second folder.”

Marika immediately understood that something had changed.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“The bag must not be opened.”

Giga smiled.

“You see? They are threatening you too. This whole thing is a performance arranged by Marika.”

“No,” I told him. “In a performance, a man does not mention his own name.”

Giga’s smile disappeared.

The captain signaled to the flight attendants to return the passengers to their seats. One of them lowered the curtains. The airplane was still on the runway, but for me it was already too late to preserve calm.

I looked at Marika.

“Where is the bag?”

She pointed to a small dark-green bag placed by the window. A small wooden airplane hung from the bag’s handle. Marika’s father had once carved it by hand. She carried it with her on every flight.

“Do not open it,” Marika told me.

“If I do not open it, we may not find out what they are hiding from us.”

“You may open it and then we may not find out who is threatening us.”

Giga suddenly lunged toward me, but the co-pilot grabbed him by the arm.

“Sit down, Giga.”

“Are you letting go of me?”

“Today, for the first time, I am doing what I should have done years ago.”

At that moment, two people in police uniforms appeared at the airplane door. Behind them stood an aviation security investigator.

“Mr. Kavtaradze, we have several questions for you,” he said.

Giga dropped the phone onto the floor.

“This is a mistake. I am the director of this company.”

“That is precisely why we are speaking to you.”

Marika closed her eyes. It was as if, for the first time in twelve years, she allowed herself to breathe out.

I picked up the bag. The wooden airplane rubbed against my fingers.

Inside were the second folder, several printed letters, and a small voice recorder. As soon as Marika saw it, she covered her face with her hands.

“This was my last protective step,” she said.

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Because I was more afraid of losing you than of my own life.”

I switched on the voice recorder.

In the very first recording, Marika’s voice could be heard.

“If Nika is listening to this, then it means I did not manage to tell him. Nika, I was not deceiving you because I did not love you. On the contrary. I was afraid that my fear would destroy your life too.”

Marika stood in front of me and cried.

The recording continued.

“Giga Kavtaradze knows that I sent all the documents in your name. If anything happens to me, the police must know that you are not a witness. You are the person I tried to protect.”

Giga stood at the door, and for the first time it was visible on his face that he himself was listening to his own words. His voice could be heard clearly in the recording:

“We will reach your husband too if you bring out one more sheet.”

He lowered his head.

“This has been edited,” he muttered.

The investigator showed him the phone.

“The conversation has already been sent for independent examination. Besides, these words were also recorded by the cameras in your office.”

Giga looked at Marika.

“You did not know that we also had the recordings.”

“I knew,” she answered calmly. “I was simply waiting for you to say it in your own voice.”

They led Giga off the airplane.

The passengers stood silently. Some had tears in their eyes, others had their phones ready. Journalists also appeared at the airplane door.

But this was not the end.

That same evening, in an empty airport room, the investigator told us that the owner of the company was trying to flee the country. All the documents were sufficient against him, but one sheet was missing.

“Which sheet?” I asked.

The investigator looked at Marika.

“The one that says who gave the final order for that fatal flight.”

Marika looked at the empty pocket of the bag.

“This sheet was here.”

“It is not here now,” the investigator said.

At that moment a message arrived on Marika’s phone.

“If you want your husband to remain safe, come alone to the old terminal tomorrow morning.”

I looked at the message and realized that our most dangerous night had not even begun.

We arrived at the old terminal at five in the morning. Outside, the rain drew cold lines across the asphalt. Marika still held the same green bag, and the small wooden airplane slowly swayed on its handle.

“You must come alone,” the message said.

“Then I will wait for you outside,” I told her.

“Nika, if something happens…”

“This time, do not protect me without my will.”

She looked at me for a long time and nodded.

She entered the terminal.

Together with the police, I entered through the back door. A few minutes later we heard voices in the warehouse.

“Give me the sheet,” said Giga’s superior, the company owner, Otar Japaridze. “After that everything will be over.”

“No,” Marika answered. “Everything is only beginning now.”

Otar raised his hand, but at that moment the lights came on. Investigators entered from all four sides.

Otar tried to escape.

The door was already locked.

The sheet was hidden inside Marika’s shoe. She had carried it there all night.

Otar’s order was clearly written on it: hiding the technical fault, changing the inspection records, and intimidating the employees who would reveal the truth.

This time no one could erase it.

Several weeks later, Giga and Otar were arrested. I sat in the back, in the last row, in the courtroom. Marika stood beside me, but we still touched each other’s hands carefully, as if both of us were afraid that all of this would disappear again.

The prosecutor turned on the recording.

Giga’s own voice rang out in the courtroom.

“We will reach your husband too.”

He raised his head.

For the first time, he heard his own words not through someone else’s mouth, but in his own voice. He covered his face with his hands.

I did not look toward him.

Justice turned out to be noisy, but my victory was not.

Marika refused to return to the airline. First she began working at a small city travel school. She taught beginner flight attendants how to recognize danger and how not to remain silent.

I changed jobs and began working from home. For the first time in twelve years, on our anniversary I did not need to check the time or read the flight schedule.

Three months later we opened the door of our old apartment. Marika’s wardrobe was half empty. On the shelf only her favorite white scarf remained, from the day when I first met her.

“I thought you would be angry with me,” she told me.

“I was angry.”

“Now?”

“Now I want you not to try to protect me by hiding the truth next time.”

Marika nodded.

“I will try.”

“No. Just tell me.”

“I will tell you.”

In winter, our little nephew Luka often came to us. One day he picked up the wooden airplane and said to me:

“Uncle, will this no longer fly?”

I laughed.

“It will fly when we want it to.”

Marika looked at us from the kitchen. She was holding a kettle, and for the first time in a long while she had a peaceful smile on her face.

Several months later, Giga’s lawyer called me.

“He wants to meet your wife,” he told me. “He says that you can settle everything.”

“What does he want to settle?”

“He wants to apologize.”

I stood by the window. The first snow was falling outside.

“Tell him that we are no longer waiting for his apology.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I ended the call.

Marika stood silently in the doorway.

“Who was it?”

“The past.”

“And what did you answer?”

“That we no longer let it into the house.”

She smiled at me.

That evening we returned the small wooden airplane to the shelf. Once it had been a symbol of Marika’s fear. Now it was simply a small object that reminded us how close we had come to losing each other.

Marika took my hand.

“Where will we celebrate our anniversary this year?”

Outside the window, snow was falling silently on the city.

“At home,” I told her.

And for the first time, this word no longer needed a flight schedule.