The crowd wasn't body-surfing, but they were standing up on the pews, dancing, pumping their fists.
It was a rock show.
Ataturk leaned toward me. “When you have played the Narghile, why not play somewhere better? Why not play in Greek Cyprus or in Greece or in Tel Aviv? In Athens, I can pay you better than what you were getting playing little clubs in France.”
“I want to do something more than rock and roll.”
* * * *
It was a weird night, mostly because Ali decided he wanted to be our manager after all. Neither Vlad nor Rick was hot on that idea, but Ataturk surprisingly was. “I do have a financial interest in the Narghile,” the old man said. “I do not mind giving my people my business. Most of them are good Turks who want only to live peaceful lives. It is just the virus of fundamentalism that poisons the mind of the few.”
“But Ali?” Vlad asked.
“He is a good man. Our families have been friends for generations. My daughter thinks of herself as, who is that, Courtly Love, and must do things to provoke him. I side with her of course, except in business matters; I know her provocations are mere show. Ali knows Nicosia and he will know how to get you a good rate. Also to whom to give baksheesh so that you are not stuck in a cement interrogation cell for a week.”
I could see Shayla being Courtney, but that would make Ali The Kurt, which was plain laughable.
“Why don't you manage us?” I asked.
“Though I am Turkish, I prefer the Greek side of the Green Line.”
The next morning, Ali drove us in a Lexus SUV that reeked of cigar smoke. He and Ataturk had already made some rehearsal arrangements with the manager of the Narghile, and we had stored our gear in the back. The three band members sat in the rear seat. Up front sat Shayla, dressed all in black, like a fundie, except that she announced, “You know, I wear nothing underneath,” causing Ali's neck to redden and his fingers to grip the wheel until they went bloodless.
“Business and pleasure don't mix,” Vlad whispered.
“Man, I need some help,” Rick said. He was jittery, in withdrawals, his powers of observation uncomfortably keen. “The LEDs on the dashboard, man, they look like eyes of the devil.”
I gave him a two mg Xanax.
He relaxed almost immediately. Shayla turned toward Rick. In her headdress, she looked like a nurse from the Florence Nightingale era. “Is a hard drug to quit, no?”
“Hard once the evil eye of Shaitan sees you always,” Ali grumbled.
“Come on, dude, he's having a rough time,” Vlad said.
Ali sighed theatrically. “Sorry. All apologies.”
Ali's words cued The Kurt's greatest song inside my head. I closed my eyes and thought about my koi pond, and I breathed in and out mindfully. Rick, relaxing, began pointing out sights, his drug-induced excitement an odd counterpoint to Kurt's melancholy. Only once did Ali correct Rick, like a concert-goer disappointed by his favorite band but too polite to heckle.
We reached the same checkpoint we'd been stopped at yesterday.
“Hello, my friend,” Ali said to the same British soldier we had met before.
“Good afternoon, Ali,” the Brit said. “A show tonight, Ms. Ataturk?”
“I have my transit documents,” she said.
“I know. I was having you on. These three, however—”
I had my passport ready. I pushed it at him. “I have a two-day visit stamp.”
He glanced at it cursorily but did not ask to see Rick's or Vlad's.
“We're thinking about moving here!” Rick said.
“Do not joke,” Ali said. Then, to the Brit: “They are fool American rock stars. I am their manager.”
The Brit had tensed up; I could see his yellow eyes examining us. “Your passport, please,” he said to Rick.
Rick handed him the passport and this time, not only did he read the passport carefully, he waved an electronic wand over its bar code. Then he handed it back.
“Do watch what you say, mates. You're not entering friendly territory.”
“Understood,” Vlad said.
Ali pulled something from his pocket. A big doobie? No, a cigar, cinched with a gold band. “Cuban,” he said, offering it to the soldier.
“No, thank you, Ali. I appreciate the gesture, but we're on alert with this Amanita business. Can't even accept olives.”
Ali sighed. “It is what Allah wills.”
“Hopefully, it's temporary. Soon I will have a gift for you, inshallah.”
They raised the gate, a set of vertical steel bars that looked strong enough to withstand tanks.
When we had passed into Turkish Nicosia, Shayla said, “Apparently, we must wait for this week's bottle of Scottish whiskey.”
Ali swore in Turkish, then turned the Lexus's MP3-player to some sort of industrial death metal thing, so loud and disturbing Rick cried out in pain.
Shayla switched the sound system to the radio. The BBC. “You are punishing him, not me.”
“It's cool, man,” Rick said. “Just give me another bar, will you, Dennis?”
“Too soon,” I said.
“Good,” Ali said. “He needs to learn the self-control. You mock my whiskey, but I never have more than two drinks a night.”
On the radio, we listened to some snarky British lady comment on office politics as we took in the sites of Northern Nicosia. It still looked prosperous, nothing like Beirut or Cairo or Baghdad, but the differences between it and the Greek half of the city were profound. Many storefronts were shuttered closed. Few people walked the streets. Most women I saw wore headscarves, and some even wore bhurkas.
“Amanita must be scaring everybody,” I said.
“It is Friday,” Shayla said. “We observe the day of rest.”
“Like all good Believers, we shall stop at the Great Mosque to pray,” Ali said.
But he was being sarcastic. We sped past a mosque with minarets like corn silos. We saw some open tourist shops, and a Jamba Juice at which were congregated many patrons wearing Mylar suits ("silverbugs!” Rick said), and a low-rise 1980s-looking office building, into which a Saudi in full headdress was hurrying, alongside three Asian-looking businessmen in cooling suits so mirrorlike we could see Ali's green Lexus reflected. The streets were crowded with cars, many of them big SUVs like the Lexus, but Ali found a parking space in front of the ruins of an old building.
“Ancient Greek?” Vlad asked.
Ali snorted. “Post-war British! Bombed six months ago!”
Rick trembled.
“Is safe now, Rickie,” Shayla said. “Was the apartment building in which a Greek sympathizer lived.”
We got out. The hot air felt like stepping into a packed club whose owners would rather risk the heat-stroke deaths of patrons than turn on the AC. We started unloading our gear. Rick, white, still shaking, couldn't even pull his snare drum out of the Lexus. Shayla made him drink from a bottle of water, then Vlad whispered to me, “Give him another bar. Fuck this clean and sober shit.”
I gave him a Xanax and made him sit in the car with the AC still on.
“Americans, very strong,” Ali said.
Shayla said something angry to him in Turkish. He did not apologize to us, but did help us finish unloading our gear. When Shayla started to help us, he gave her a disapproving look, but did not stop her.
We walked half a block. I pulled the drum-kit dolly with my acoustic guitar strapped on top, Ali carried my electric guitar, Vlad pulled the dolly with our amps, Shayla carried his bass, and Rick carried the duffel bag with our mics and wires. We passed a Starbucks on one corner, crowded with tourists and locals. Rick said, “Man, a Frapaccino sounds good.”
“Too expensive,” Ali said. “Omar will have coffee for you.”
Omar ran the Narghile. The building was Ottoman-style, tiled arches over vertical windows. It stood catty-corner from the Starbucks. Omar had wall-eyes and a pot belly and a Saddam mustache just like Ali's. “God be with you,” he said, then, ou
tside on the sidewalk, he waved a metal detector wand over each of us men. He allowed Ali to rub the wand over Shayla. Ali took his time. She glared at both Omar and Ali, but Omar was studying Rick. “You strung out?”
“He doesn't do well in the heat,” Vlad said.
“He is the Xanax junkie,” Ali said.
“He sign non-liability document,” Omar said.
“WTF?” Rick said.
“I talk,” Ali said. “You stay quiet.” It was weird, negotiating on the sidewalk with our equipment at our feet, but Shayla and I calmed Rick down, while Ali and Omar gabbed away in Turkish. Then Ali said, “Mr. Rick will sign that the Narghile Club, Omar, and Mr. Ataturk will not be financially responsible for the damage caused by him. Also, not responsible for the hospitalization, burial, or police and coroner investigation in the sad case of Rick's death.”
“You got us a fucking good deal,” Vlad said.
“He will guarantee the Downtown Dharma four hundred euros per show,” Ali added.
Vlad fumed. I felt dizzy in the heat, but thought of Redmond, cool and overcast, my koi swimming peaceably, and I said, “I think we can work with that.” I patted Rick's shoulder. “It'll be okay. Remember what we're really here for.”
“Saving the world,” Rick said flatly.
* * * *
“Good band, good Americans,” Omar said. Rick had signed the release, then we'd drunk Turkish coffee, which is basically espresso with the grounds left at the bottom of the cup. We had wanted to sign a contract immediately but Ali had told us that we and Omar would sign one after we had played a couple of songs, “to assure us that the acoustics of the space were to our liking.”
“Bullshit,” Vlad whispered to me. “We're auditioning to play a hole in the wall.”
“It's cool, Vlad,” I said. “Remember what we're here for.”
Ali had heard our discussion. He slapped Vlad on the shoulder. “Don't worry, my friends. This is the Turkish way. Mr. Ataturk will be highly displeased if we are not allowed the playing of this club.”
“Reassuring,” Vlad said.
But I breathed in, breathed out, found equanimity. We set up our gear, plugging in amps. They had an electronic keyboard, a top-of-the-line Roland, better than my own, and the stage was spacious. And while there were a couple brass hubba-bubbas sitting on the bar, the place seemed to be called the Narghile because of all the fantastic water pipes carved into the woodwork walls and ceiling. There were fat Turks in fezes smoking from bongs big as refrigerators and half-dressed voluptuous women trying unsuccessfully to get the men's attention. Rick set up his drum kit with Shayla's help. Ali didn't like that and went to have words with his ex-girlfriend. They argued in Turkish and Rick seemed to melt away, getting smaller and smaller behind his drums as the other two went at it. My nice vibe shattered and I went to Omar, who was behind the bar, polishing it with lemon Pledge. “You got anything other than coffee?”
“Ah.” He winked one bulbous eye. “I have the special Coke for American rock stars.”
“Um—” I said, thinking he meant cocaine.
But he gave me a rum and Coke. Or more likely a bathtub gin and Coke. It tasted terrible, but warmed my gut. But it didn't relax me sufficiently; I saw now that Vlad was trying to comfort Rick, and Shayla and Ali were still arguing, with the addition of a third party on a cell phone, to whom Ali spoke more deferentially. I should have gone up there to see if I could help. I'm the leader of the band, after all. But instead I went to the bathroom.
The porcelain toilet was clean. I sat on the seat and sipped my drink and looked at the pictures of female genitalia scratched into the metal stall, as well as witticisms such as “Yanki GO Home” and “Fuk Hellas!” I felt sorry for myself. I could not taste the gin over the smell of bleach. I thought about the time Kurt's first girlfriend found him passed out in a toilet stall, syringe still stuck in his arm. I called Aunt Martha on my cell.
“It's five AM here, Dennis,” she said. “Are you in jail?”
“A jail of the mind.”
“Are you high? Don't tell me you woke me up to play games.”
“I'm sober,” I said. The drink had given me not a buzz but a dismal sense of clarity. I could still hear them arguing outside. How rational The Kurt had been those times he'd wanted to still his consciousness for just a few hours.
“Dennis? Talk to me!”
Martha is commanding; it's not being demure that has kept her in the State Department since George the First. “It's Ali. He's fighting with his ex-girlfriend. And I'm not doing anything about it. If I can't help two people quarreling, how can I help heal Islam?”
“Ali? Ali and Shayla?”
“Yeah.”
“Honey, if I could tell you how to reconcile those two, I could just as easily win the Nobel Peace Prize for unifying Cyprus.”
“It's that bad?”
“Stick to music, Dennis. That's something simpler than the human heart. I assume you're going to play the Bachus. That's good. People will appreciate you there. Even if some fundies catcall you because you're American, you might be able to soften some attitudes. You do have a sweetness when you're up there on stage.”
I knew she was giving me props to lift my spirits. But it made me feel better anyway. I started to correct her about which club we were going to play, but noticed something else: keyboards, drums, bass. They were starting their sound check without me.
“Thanks, Aunt Martha.”
“You're welcome. Now, I'd like to go back to sleep.”
“Sure. But can I ask you just one thing?”
“Of course,” she said, a little testily.
I told her about the contract Rick had to sign.
“Haven't you signed liability-release contracts before?”
“Yeah, but for a club in Cyprus?”
“The Bachus is popular.”
“And they're making us audition, too.”
“I'm not a lawyer, dear. I'll call Andros if you want him to refer you to one.”
“No, thanks. We'll be okay. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“You can always call me, Dennis. But you really ought to call your mother, too.”
We said our goodbyes. I emerged from the bathroom feeling better. Half because of what my aunt had said. Half because the rest of Downtown Dharma was playing our instrumental “Skid Rowing,” sort of a surf-punk song with a grinding metal bass, and Shayla was playing along, improvising a synth part that was light and airy and made me think of a happy dude floating high above the waves on a parasail.
I picked up my acoustic guitar and joined in.
* * * *
Omar liked us. I knew he would. We're no Nirvana, but we've been good enough to play the little stage at Lollapalooza. We signed the contract. It was screwy, because Shayla was going to play keyboards; and while Vlad was unhappy about having a fourth member forced upon us, I thought it was a smart deal all around: I'm a better guitarist than keyboardist, a cute chick draws a bigger crowd, and just having Shayla up there would symbolize the unification of Islam and the West. Plus, Ali had upped our take to five hundred Euros.
“Your acoustic guitar has an interesting sound,” Omar mentioned to me, as we sat around the bar, drinking more gritty coffee to celebrate.
“Yeah, I've made some personalized enhancements,” I said. I glanced at Rick. He was smiling at Shayla, not wild-giggly, but happy.
I thought that as long as my guitar sounded a little off Rick might find good reasons to keep smiling.
* * * *
When we went outside, there was a crowd in front of the Starbucks.
“Do not go over there,” Ali said.
“We got to get back to your SUV,” Vlad said.
It was hot. We were going to drive to lunch. Vlad was holding his bass, me my acoustic and electric. We never left guitars at a bar we didn't know.
“Let's check it out,” Rick said.
“Unwise,” Ali said.
We strode into the street. Our
shoes left depressions in the heat-softened asphalt. The sunlight was dizzying. I remember a dozen people standing around an outdoor table, unified by shock, though they dressed wildly differently—an Asian businessman in a silverback suit, an elderly couple in Mylar hats with flaps big as elephant ears, a Western chick wearing a head scarf yet also a tank-top that flaunted her bronzed shoulders, and beside her a woman in a water-cooled bhurka that steamed in the heat.
“He's just passed out!” a British girl was crying. “It's so bloody hot!”
Rick pushed through the little crowd, Shayla tugging at his shirt as if to caution him. But he said: “Fucking A.”
“It's nothing!” said the Brit. “He just needs some water!”
The crowd parted. I saw what was happening. The British chick was supporting the head of a guy in a Cnut T-shirt who was pale but pimply-faced. He seemed asleep, but having happy dreams, smiling slightly.
I have seen the same smiles on men who'd been knocked down in bar fights.
Then I noticed the pimples were something else: they were small and zit-sized, except they were blue, yellow, green, like tiny perfect bruises.
“Amanita,” Ali said.
Rick groaned.
“Don't ring the police!” the Brit pleaded. “We've a doctor we know here!”
The whoom-whoom siren sound that European ambulances make echoed off the old buildings.
“No lunch,” said Ali, as he headed toward the Lexus.
We clambered aboard the Lexus, me and Vlad setting our instruments down with the care we'd taken after the Como bombing. I was breathing mindfully, thinking koi, when Rick said, “My drums. They're in the club.”
“Omar will safe-keep them,” Ali said. “We must go back to Greek Nicosia before they lock the gate.”
“But we have a show tonight,” I said. I breathed deeply to no avail. “We signed for a show with Omar!”
“Omar will postpone,” Shayla said. “He is a good businessman, yes, Ali?”
Ali grunted. He was preoccupied with traffic, and with calling someone on his cell phone. The conversation was in Turkish and I didn't understand. I did understand the people who were trying to force their cars into the street. And I did understand the tourists who streamed out of the Great Mosque toward their tour bus, each of them talking on their cell phones or, in the case of one elderly couple, crossing themselves: a gesture sure to please their hosts.
Asimov's SF, December 2008 Page 14
