* * *
Novella: THE FLOWERS OF NICOSIA
by David Ira Cleary
"The Flowers of Nicosia” was inspired, in part, by R.E.M.'s “The Flowers of Guatemala,” The author tells us it is “one of my favorite songs of the eighties. Credit should also go to Lisa Goldstein, Darrend Brown, and Susan Lee for convincing me to remove some of Rick's zaniest benzo-induced bits of dialog."
Downtown Dharma was on its European Tour. We rocked. We were tight. We played Nirvana and Pearl Jam and STP covers, plus a few wicked originals that I must have channeled from Kurt Cobain himself. And of course, the obligatory Arctic Meltdown or Queers of the Mesozoic standards for the young kids in the audience, the ones who would have been tots the day The Kurt kissed the barrel of his shotgun.
We played Bristol, Coventry, Hamburg, Lyon, Oporto, opening for Osama Been Laid until the Submission Faction blew up La Roque House in Como an hour before showtime. Two roadies and six clubbers bought it. The fundies used cordite. Osama Been Laid went back to the States and changed its name. In between they spent some time rapping with Interpol and with Homeland Security. They had all this coming, was our feeling. You pick a provocative name, you're going to pay the consequences, even if you're just doing Moby covers.
The Italian police also asked us questions for an hour or three. Rick (drummer) popped a few benzos beforehand but still managed to nervously say, “We're all criminals, we're all victims.” Vlad (bass) told crap stories about the girls whose names he had tattooed on his arms, saying each was one he'd known who'd died in Bali or Jacksonville or on 7/7, but the middle-aged police inspector opined with a straight face how sorry he was that Alanis Morrisette had met such a tragic end. I, Dennis (vocals, guitar, keyboards) was pure Zen. I thought about my rock garden in Redmond. I'd like to think it was my perfect equanimity that kept Downtown Dharma from being detained until the Interpol goons could arrive. More likely, we presented ourselves as harmless fools not worthy of the investigational resources of the international community.
I think differently now.
We left the police station at dawn, bought cappuccinos at a Starbucks, then walked the promenade along the Lago di Como. The morning was warm and the water green and celebrity jet skiers were already making waves before the day got too hot. I felt the oneness with the universe that a sleepless night always gives.
Rick was not so mellow. He washed down a bar of Xanax with his cappuccino, swearing as he burned his mouth. He walked ahead of Vlad and me, drumming roll-offs on his liver-spotted balding scalp or twisting his fingers nervously in the remnants of his fuchsia-dyed ponytail. “None of you guys get the enormity of the situation. We're next.”
“Next what?” I asked.
He didn't turn. “Fundamentalized, Dennis. Blown up. Manburgers.”
“You're reading this all wrong,” Vlad said. “This is a sign, dude.”
Rick turned. Pupils big as 45s. “A stop sign, you mean. A Dead End.”
Vlad sighed. “No. A portent. We weren't hurt. We weren't hardly even interrogated. Now what's that say to you?”
Rick drummed on a plaque that said something about Mussolini being shot in a nearby village. “Law of averages is about to get us.”
Vlad sighed heavily and looked at me.
“We've got good karma,” I said.
“No, Dennis,” Vlad said. “It's more than that. We got to keep making music.”
“I don't want to stop making music,” I said.
“I mean meaningful music.”
“Don't dis The Kurt,” I warned.
“Dude, you're not getting me. I had this flash in the police station. I had this Saul of Tarsus thing. Why keep playing these clubs like Virgin Records is ever going to sign us? Why not do something meaningful? Why not take Nirvana to Islam!”
* * * *
If you ever have the choice between being, say, a guitar virtuoso, and having good karma, choose karma. You got karma, you can visualize what you want and the rest will be made manifest. Sitting in our hotel room that night, Rick watching the Italian coverage of the La Roque House bombing (using headphones at our request), Vlad drinking Sambuca as he read Thomas Merton and Jello Biafra: American Prophets, and me on the bed deep-breathing as I sipped Coors Lite and visualized myself in my backyard, strumming my guitar soft as a whisper to my happy stone Buddha and the goldfish in my pond, I had my inspiration. Not a flash, not a numinous experience, but a tingle, a happiness. I could see Downtown Dharma, engaging some hostile fundies, guys hell-bent on blowing up the band, the club, any guy without a beard or woman without a bhurka, and we able to reach their gentle natures, the human part unsullied by the raging mullahs and the oil-sheik dictators. All through our music. Get ‘em to fizzle-out their fuses, break their timers, love their neighbors whether they were Jew or Jain, Christian or Kurd. My pulse slowed. I opened my eyes. “I've got an action plan,” I said.
“Cool, dude,” said Vlad. He might be the one who'd initially get inspiration, but I was the one who did the Right Action. “Do you think Andy will book us somewhere?”
Andy was Osama Been Laid's manager. He'd been handling the tour for us. He hadn't returned my calls all day. “No, I was thinking Martha.”
“Auntie Martha? At the State Department?”
“Yeah.”
“She's no agent! She's the Man, dude!”
“She knows lots of shit.”
“Guys!” Rick shouted. “There we are!” The TV showed us walking toward the club, lugging our equipment, faces befuddled in the red-amber-blue lights of the police and ambulance cars. A girl with half her hair burned off, punk-style not by choice, gave Vlad a kiss. He was cool. Chicks always dug him. Rick though, freaking out, let go of his dolly. His drum kit would have rolled into the street if I hadn't had the presence of mind to catch it. Rick moaned. “What fuck-ups we are!”
“Turn it off,” Vlad said.
“Now every fundie that watches Al-Jazeera knows us!”
Vlad grabbed the remote and turned off the tube.
“I got the jitters,” Rick whined. He started searching for pills through the shag carpet.
I'd hidden his stash. I'd been doling it out to him at intervals. I didn't want to deal with an ER trip. That would be just too Kurt Cobain.
I took out my cell phone, then dialed Martha's cell.
She picked up on the third ring. “Dennis. You need to call your mother.”
“Yeah, I'll do that.” My mind blanked as I listened to Aunt Martha lecture me on my irresponsibility, on not calling home to let my folks know I was okay, on not going to N.A. meetings, on not brushing my teeth or wearing earplugs during shows ("You'll be as deaf as Pete Townsend someday.") Or even that fucking canard, what's a forty-three-year old doing playing a young man's game? I thought of some assholeish things to say, but remained Zen. “Aunt Martha, I was hoping you could help us.”
“You need money to fly back to the States, tell me.”
“Thanks. We're okay on money. What I was thinking was maybe you could help with visas.”
“Visas? What idiocy do you have planned now?”
I took a breath and counted to three. Then I told her about my plan. She heard me out. She's a good listener. “So maybe you could help us get a visa to some Muslim country, like Iran or Egypt or Lebanon.”
Vlad began to sip another shot of Sambuca, but reconsidered, and gave the shot to Rick, who had gone bug-eyed.
“Dennis,” Martha said. “There is something called the Internet. The State Department has a website. You might want to visit it. There we list the countries with which we no longer have close diplomatic ties. These countries don't issue visas to Americans.”
I silently gave Aunt Martha the finger. Me not know the Internet? I'd surfed to RocTube just yesterday because our fans had already uploaded our Lyon show. “What about, um, Indonesia? Or Turkey?”
“Indonesia, no. As for Turkey, your EU visa works, but travel there is officially discouraged.”
“Discouraged? Wh
y?”
“Biological terrorism incidents.”
“What? Anthrax?”
“The Internet also has something called news. There is a new biological agent called Amanita which has been used in Ankara and Istanbul over the last few months.”
“What's Amanita?”
“This frequency is not secure, Dennis.”
“Right.” Martha couldn't talk to me about something which probably any website could give me volumes on. “So, is there anywhere safe we might go?
“Sioux Falls, South Dakota,” she said. “But if you want to pursue your good-will mission, you might consider Cyprus.” She took a deep breath. “I have friends in Nicosia who might rent you a house in a safe neighborhood.”
“Cool! And there's Muslims?”
“As there are stars in the sky.”
“So tell me about your friends in Nicosia.”
“Call your mother, Dennis. Then let's talk when I'm not at work.”
* * * *
The house was on a hillside in the Strovlos neighborhood, overlooking downtown Nicosia, and beyond it the old mosques and apartment blocks and treeless hills of Turkish Northern Cyprus.
Smog tinged everything sepia like an old fashioned photo.
“This is like a house in Redmond,” Vlad said.
“Not enough green,” I said, as I pulled our air-conditioned ‘98 Fiat into the driveway.
“Bet it's got a nice garden out back,” Rick said. He laughed like he'd made a witticism. I'd given him four milligrams of Xanax when we boarded the plane in Athens. I had sensed he was this close to a panic attack. “Bet it's got a Buddha.”
“This looks like the house of a career diplomat,” Vlad said.
“Andros and Maria work for the government of Cyprus,” I said.
“We might as well have stayed in Ath—” Vlad started as we got out. He stopped. The heat was incredible. He leaned against the car, then yelped. “Fucking hot!”
“I brought my hat,” Rick said, pulling a wide-brimmed straw hat down over his head.
I'd known Cyprus was hot, one of those places even the old crones no longer wear black but heat-reflective Mylar jumpsuits. “At least it's a dry heat.” But my breath burned my lungs as I carried my two guitar cases toward the door. We passed two skinny pine trees still green and two others long dead. I knocked at the door.
A dude in a Saddam Hussein mustache and a double-breasted suit with a rainbow sheen greeted us. “Hello. You are Instant Karma, no?”
“Allahu akbar!” giggled Rick. I elbowed him.
“We're Downtown Dharma,” I said. “You must be Andros. My Aunt Martha gives her regards.”
The man bowed. “Your aunt is a fine woman. I am called Ali Musharak. Mr. Andros and his wife are spending the summer in the Peloponnesus. They send you this message.”
Ali Musharak presented his cell phone. It played a video. Andros, olive-skinned but hair bleached blonde, wished us a pleasant stay. Maria, who had a Texas accent, said, “Don't y'all go trashing our place, you hear?” but she said it with a wink. I liked them.
Ali motioned us in. Air-conditioning on so high it gave me goose pimples. “Fine salon, yes?” he asked. It was decked out with Bauhaus (not the band)-style furniture, rigid black leather chairs and couchettes that just looking at made your back ache. Walls adorned with classy framed B & W photos (Broadway, NYC, 1936; Market Street, SF, 1947). There were icons, too, the Virgin Mary, and Jesus on the cross, and some Greek Orthodox Patriarch in a black cassock. And there was a glass bookcase, with books in Greek but also English: travel books and gardening books and, most interesting for Vlad, a Religious Section, Bibles and Korans and books about Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Gandhi and Deepak Chopra.
“Now, the upstairs,” Ali said. He took us up a winding staircase and showed us three small bedrooms, then led us to what he called a “rock and roll room,” which, with its beanbag chairs and mini-fridge and Foosball game, looked like something out of a Seattle basement. The one wrong note was that the polished wood floors were covered with a clear plastic tarp.
“What the fuck?” Vlad asked.
Ali pointed at the electrical outlets. “There are adapters for your American voltages, for your amplificators.” He pointed at the mini-fridge. “It is stocked with beer. But please to not smash the walls.”
“Dude, we're not twenty-one,” Vlad said, pissy.
“Most certainly,” agreed Ali.
“You got a garden?” I asked. “Maria said there's a place to meditate in the backyard.”
“I show you the kitchen,” Ali said. “Garbage disposal. Twelve hundred watt microwave.”
“I'd rather see the garden.” Vlad's pissiness and Rick's Xanax-induced giggles were disrupting my equanimity. “I need a place to be mellow.”
Ali stiffened. “I will show you the backyard.”
He took us out back. I'd been imagining the house in Redmond: Buddha and koi pond surrounded by lilac bushes and jade plants and a soothing wall of redwood trees.
Instead there was a hot cement slab and a plot of brown grass and two more dead trees. “Apologies,” Ali said. “We have fine sprinkler system, but its use is made illegal by the global warming.”
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. “What I want to know,” I said to Ali, “is do you know the rock scene in Nicosia?”
Ali smiled. “Oh, yes. I know the rockers. I can take you to the club, the Bachus, yes?”
* * * *
“Thirteen hundred dollars a month for this?” Vlad said. He was strumming his bass, unplugged, in the small bedroom he'd claimed for himself, and I was in the lotus position on my yoga mat on his floor. My acoustic guitar rested at my side in case I got inspired.
“You wanted Islam,” I said. “It was your idea.”
“But this is Christian Cyprus. This is your aunt's friends’ place.”
“Downtown Nicosia's just twenty minutes away! You'd rather sleep in some cockroach motel by a minaret where they might blow us up just for not wearing beards?”
“Fuck, dude, what kind of shit are you talking? You sound like Anne Coulter.”
“Peace, dude.” He was right. I closed my eyes. I picked up my guitar, and played the intro to “All Apologies.” One of The Kurt's greatest songs. A few measures of it can express sentiments no mortal man would dare speak. I relaxed and smiled at Vlad.
“Beautiful, dude.” Vlad had a soft look on his face. He looked twenty-five again. “But don't take this the wrong way. Your sound's kind of muffled, like.”
“I know.” I thumped the side of my guitar. “I'm safekeeping Rick's stash in a sock in here.”
* * * *
You might be wondering why I'm so the Mother Hen for Rick. It started because of a show we did at the New CBGB in NYC a few years back. We were nervous. We'd just released our CD Grange Grunge and we were getting airplay outside Seattle for the first time since ‘96. And here we were playing at the world's most famous club. Well, it was the New CBGB, in Staten Island, rather than the original CBGB, in Manhattan, but that's just a detail. Anyway, we were opening for Orange Pulp, and it was before I found the Buddha, and we were all popping Benzos, and drinking our various beverages, and we got through the show okay. But afterwards two groupie chicks hit on Rick, the first time (for him) in years, and they took him to their apartment, and he came back the next morning to the house we were crashing at. I was still hungover but he was talking a mile a minute because he'd mixed ten milligrams of Xanax with some meth. Finally he took the last of his Xanax, maybe fourteen milligrams, and fell asleep. Two days later we took the van to Boston to play a club, Rick itchy and edgy and passing gas like he'd eaten nothing but refried beans. We were all out of Xanax so I gave him Coors Lite to ease his withdrawals. It helped a little, but he was still talking fast, this time about dying, not fucking seventeen-year-olds, and I asked him if he wanted to cancel. But he was a trooper, just like Kurt was, and he said the show must go on. And so we did our show, and it was a good one, he swea
ting and pounding with more urgency than I'd heard from him since sometime last century, and finally, for our encore, we played “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” It was then he lost control. He accelerated during the second chorus, drumming so fast neither Vlad nor I could keep up, and then he stood up and shouted, “I am Keith Moon!” holding his arms up in a V like Jeremy in that Pearl Jam song, and then, still clenching his drumsticks, he fell over his drum kit, knocking down his highhat and kicking a hole in his kick drum, and then, the scary part, he flopped around on stage like a fish out of water.
The paramedics were there in minutes.
Rick spent two days in Boston General, which nixed our profits from the tour as well as putting us six thousand dollars in debt to Aunt Martha.
Boys and girls, never cold turkey off of Xanax.
* * * *
At dusk we started toward the club called Bachus.
Central Nicosia is nothing like Redmond. Well, there's a few little glass skyscrapers, but mostly it's old: narrow streets, and ancient Greek temples, and old domed buildings that might be churches or mosques, and those cement five story apartment blocks made popular by Stalin. And crumbling walls and fortifications built by the Venetians and the Ottomans. It probably had some grandeur, and majesty, and all that, but the Cypriots were honking at me because I was driving too slow, and not passing buses on blind curves, and most of the street signs were in Greek, not American. And then Rick, riding shotgun, gawking at the ruins or saying random things like, “Is that the Turkish Baths?” drummed a roll-off on the dashboard.
The GPS began to give us directions in Greek.
“You dumbass,” said Vlad.
“But we've gone over!” Rick said. “It's real here! No Kentucky-fried corporate Americanized globalization!”
“There's a Quizno's down that block,” Vlad said.
“Both of you, either tell me the street we're on, or shut up,” I said.
They were quiet. They hadn't heard me speak so sharply since before I found Zen.
I tried reading the GPS map, and reading the street signs, but both driving and navigating proved too much, and a few wrong turns brought me to a cobblestone street where there were no cars and the storefronts were shuttered with steel and there was a steel picket gate that had been lowered. Two soldiers carrying automatic guns stared at us.
Asimov's SF, December 2008 Page 12
