In the humid heat of a Batumi summer, Nino sold churchkhela and walnuts from a small wooden stall near the ferris wheel. Every evening, tourists with wads of lari would pass her by, bargaining for a discount on the rosy, walnut-stuffed candy. Nino would smile, wrap their purchases in newspaper, and watch them leave.
One evening, a sleek black Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up. Out stepped Zura, a man from Tbilisi who wore a linen shirt open to his chest, displaying a thick gold chain. He had made his money in “logistics,” which in Georgia sometimes meant anything from trucking to things better left unasked.
“How much for the whole lot?” he asked, waving at her churchkhela .
“It’s not for sale,” she said.