Fire & Wind

by Leo Gher

  As for the meeting arranged between the two brothers and their significant others, the goal was to hook up at Secretary Kazimov’s party mid-week. With their pressing matters behind them, the brothers could introduce Tali and Lindy to each other and then enjoy some long-awaited family bonding.

  Aleksandr Kazimov never held his grand parties at the Azerbaijani embassy. Frankly, the Kensington Court space was too small to host all of the friends and sycophants. Kazimov and his business partners had to lease the first floor of the Ash Park Mansions for such events. What attracted the Foreign Secretary to the Mansions was not the fame of Victorian writers Dickens, Tennyson, or George Eliot, nor the nearby royal dwellings of Henry VIII and Elizabeth I; no, Aleksandr knew nothing of English literature or British history. What brought him to Chelsea were football and the trappings of a top-drawer sporting club: the hotels, restaurants, and nightclubs. He loved the glitz of the game and the glamor of the moneyed patrons who trailed after the heroes of the pitch.

  By late afternoon that second day of November, the Ash Park Mansions was ready for a party. A genuine, brass-railing bar – stocked with all forms of liquors, wines, and cordials – had been installed a few feet from the entry. The heavy wooden buffet tables had been adorned with a flashy painting of hors d’oeuvres, mulled hams, tart sausages, and cheese pastries. The odd five-walled parlor had been set up with barstools and tavern tables, perfect for chatting, drinking, and enjoying appetizers and snacks.

  It was a Thursday, which was odd for a London party. But the UN Asia Conference was scheduled to begin the next day, and Kazimov wanted his diplomatic associates to be in a good mood, pliable to his arguments about Azerbaijan.

  The guests began arriving shortly after eight. Courtyard security guards checked invitations, IDs, and ladies’ handbags. Afterward, the guests were escorted through the entry to the welcoming line. Once beyond that, they found themselves in the parlor, greeted by a flotilla of tuxedoed servers offering cocktails. The piano man was already playing, but the rest of the band was still setting up under a small nook framed by the staircase to the balcony. As always at these kinds of affairs, formal introductions quickly turned to petty chatter and the casual innuendo about others not present – all forgotten immediately as the partygoers moved from group to group.

  Jake and Lindy weren’t used to such affairs nor the banality. They felt very much out of place. Lindy asked, “Do you know any of these people?” It wasn’t really a question, but a general plea against the obvious.

  “How would I know anyone?”

  “Maybe someone we met at the auction house, or someone from the bank?” She searched the room but had no luck, and the few lines of trivia they had rehearsed for the occasion seemed a waste of time. Feeling awkward in the center of the parlor, Lindy dragged Jake off to the side, where she thought they wouldn’t be so noticeable.

  For a while it worked, but then, “Ciao!” a woman in her mid-thirties bellowed out, and a wave of over-here followed. As she arrived, she said, “I knew you would be here.” She was alone and unmistakably looking for company as well.

  “I don’t think we’ve met, Miss…?”

  “A month ago, you remember?” the woman insisted.

  “We were in the States last month,” Lindy responded.

  But the woman bullied forward, and said, “You’ve cut your hair since.” Lindy reached a hand into her hair as if she couldn’t remember whether or not she’d been to the stylist. “It was at the Turkish Ambassador’s party.”

  Trying to find common ground, Jake asked, “You often come to these things?”

  “I like to have fun. Any party will do.” Realizing she had made a first-class blunder, the woman searched for a way to end the awkward conversation. “Have you seen Kazimov?”

  “The Secretary?”

  “There’s Carla Stempfeld. I’ll bet she knows Kazimov’s whereabouts.” Waving goodbye, the woman rushed off. “We’ll talk later,” she shouted. Jake and Lindy were relieved at her departure.

  Taking her arm in his, Jake promenaded Lindy among the late-arriving guests, still looking for a recognizable face. As a server passed by, Jake replaced their old drinks with fresh ones, and then found a quiet table at the back of the hall. “Glad to get out of that.”

  Lindy had moved on. “What time did Conor say he would arrive?”

  “Didn’t. Just said to meet up at the bar.”

  Lindy glanced toward the cocktail station where three barkeeps were feverishly serving drinks. Nothing. She was nervous, not knowing what to expect in this first meeting with Conor and Tali. Then she noticed a portly, pink-cheeked man at the next table. He had trouble getting seated because of his cane—a walking stick, actually. It was a beautiful accouterment, cut to a length to suit his frame, and shod with a steel spike to help with traction. The handgrip, with a lanyard attached, was made of fine woven leather. Demonstrably, he was a person of another age, and alone. There was something about him that was unsettling. He was ruffled and seemed quite unsteady, but it was too early to be drunk. Had something happened earlier in the day? Then he took to staring at Lindy over his old-fashioned Roosevelt glasses. He must have thought they complimented his very plump face, but they didn’t. Next, he pointed to several photos on the wall, and said, “I think they stink.”

  Taken aback, and not really knowing how to respond, Lindy said, “The photos are very nice.” She was hoping to avoid an engagement.

  “Not the pictures, the Chelsea Footballers. I think they stink.” He waved his hand through the air, somehow trusting that his gesture would wipe away the football club’s latest failure in the Premier League.

  “Oh, the soccer team?” Lindy replied. “We don’t follow soccer.”

  “Soccer?” he said acerbically. “It’s football! You must be….” Out of the blue, he changed the subject, “Do you know Kazimov?”

  Jake said, “Don’t know him.”

  The old man was surprised by Jake’s brusque demeanor and punched back. “Then how the hell did you get in here?” Afterward, Old Mr. Chubby – that’s what Jake and Lindy called him from then on – ranted on rather incoherently, “He tells of the debaucheries of Sheikh Ajani, who sailed the Caspian under the standard of the new Shah, and of his three wives, all daughters of the Sturgeon King.”

  Eyes narrowed, Lindy gave him the once-over, “What are you blabbering about?”

  “These are ancient rumors, you see,” Old Mr. Chubby continued, though he seemed to be speaking only to an evasive ghost in the room. “But some people, we must never forget, do have confidence in the veracity of such rumors.”

  Lindy cut him off, “You’re speaking of the Secretary?”

  The googly-eyed ancient one then vulgarly attacked her: “You’re a Jew, right?”

  “I beg your pardon?!” Ms. Bedrosian was suddenly riled.

  “The nose,” he snorted, “it’s so big you gotta be a Jew.”

  “You’ve got some nerve!” Jake roared. “It’s none of your business—either her nationality or religion.” He rose off his chair. Old Mr. Chubby grabbed his cane and thrust it forward in a defensive move.

  Lindy, seeing what was about to happen, extended her arm, holding Jake back from doing something he would later regret. “I’m Armenian if you must know.”

  “Armenian?” His face screwed up mysteriously. “How’d the two of you get in here? This all ends tonight, but I suppose you know that.”

  Jake was confused by the rant and could take no more. But before he advanced on him, Lindy grabbed his hand and pulled Jake away from the table. She moved forward quickly, her form-fitting, gray satin evening dress accentuating her purposeful sexuality. At first, he trailed reluctantly, then, a few man-melting strides later, he followed quite willingly.

  As they crossed the dance floor, bursts of laughter rose from the crowd, and Jake and Lindy soon forgot the chance meeting with th
e old fool. They were bouncing about for only a few minutes when the music unexpectedly stopped. Above the din of confused dancers, the band leader’s voice rang out. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “at Secretary Kazimov’s request, we bring you Gadir Mammadov’s latest Muğam composition.” From behind the bandstand, the composer appeared and took a gracious bow. “Please stand back as the wait staff clear a space for the performers.”

  Jake and Lindy hustled to the wall. Then the impresario announced, “From the Land of Fire and Wind, I give you The Legend of Bul-Bul.”

  Few Londoners were familiar with Azeri music. Unlike European classical compositions, there is no long overture to either the music or the dance. Muğam is a sudden burst of the lute, drum, fiddle, and a rush of movement and costume. Tonight, the musicians began playing double-quick, and a split-second later, eight dancers in full Azeri dress leaped onto the floor. The traditional whine and whir of the first tune were so enchanting, so hypnotic, that those present began dancing, clapping and snapping their fingers. It didn’t last long, but it was a big hit with all the partygoers.

  When it was over, there was another round of applause. After that, Jake took Lindy in his arms and kissed her. “Thanks for the cover,” he said, “the old guy was just a dope.”

  Lindy said nothing but wasn’t so sure that Jake was right. There was cunning in the man’s demeanor, and she was still angry about the ethnic insult. That’s when Lindy spotted Conor at the bar. There was a woman with him, had to be Tali. For Lindy, it was a relief to see someone she knew. She had never met Conor in person but recognized him from the photos at Sam and Iza’s house in Carbondale. For the moment, however, she was paying attention to the woman on his arm. She was turned away so Lindy couldn’t see her face. But she wore a black lace Maxi dress, with an open back, which accentuated her powerful swimmer’s shoulders and slender hips.

  For Jake, however, it was a different matter. He was filled with apprehension about seeing his brother for the first time since their father’s death. He worried, not about what to say, but how to say it. He wondered, will he still think of me as a kid?

  How could he? Back then, Conor had his own demons to fight. Only days earlier, he had become an orphan and then was suddenly saddled with the crown of one of the ruling families of Azerbaijan. Will Conor remember how I felt?

  More importantly, Jake remembered the matter of Seymur Rasuli and Rufet Qurb; the two men that were involved in his father’s murder. He had promised to confront Conor about this, but now that the moment was at hand, his resolve wavered.

  As they neared, Conor smiled bigheartedly, “Good to see you, Jake.” He offered his hand, and afterward introduced Tali, “This is my cousin, Talia Nadirov.”

  Though most Americans are comfortable with hugging, Azeri Muslims are not. The woman shook Jake’s hand. “Call me Tali. I am the daughter of Mirana and Seyfulla. Maybe you remember them?” For the moment, he did not, though there was something about the names that triggered a memory. But Jake couldn’t quite recall what.

  “Did you like the Muğam?” Conor asked.

  “First time for me. Found it interesting, though.”

  Not wanting Jake to go abruptly sullen at the long-anticipated meeting, Lindy jumped in. “I’m Lindy, the girlfriend.”

  Conor took up her cue, “I’m Conor, the elderly brother.” They laughed.

  “Conor,” said Tali, touching his arm. “There’s Alexandr. Shouldn’t we say hello?”

  The Kedar Bey turn to his brother. “Do you mind, Jake?” Moynihan shook his head, and they all paraded off to the head table where Kazimov was holding court.

  As Conor was speaking with Kazimov, Lindy noticed that Old Mr. Chubby had moved to a table behind Kazimov. She tapped Jake’s arm and pointed. He wasn’t acting crazy like before, just drinking a cup of tea; but his proximity to the Secretary was somewhat troubling.

  Jake, however, was paying no attention. He was trying to remember the connection to the Nadirovs. Then it came to him. It was at his father’s funeral, and he blurted out, “The water girl!”

  Tali was bowled over. “Water girl?”

  “It was seven years ago; you were the one who anointed everyone with holy water – everyone except me.”

  The corners of her eyes crinkled, and Tali replied, “I’m not sure I understand.”

  For Jake, it was a defining moment. The Markirovs and Nadirovs had taken over the funeral proceedings, and Jake felt abandoned. Only Sam Mansour recognized his torment. Jake recalled the exact phrase Sam used as he prayed his father on to the next world: Praise the one who breaks the darkness. The 16-year-old did not appreciate what it meant, only how he felt at the time: profound loss, betrayal, confusion, and loneliness. Over the years, when Jake felt morose and alienated, he would think of the incident and know that in that place, he was a stranger in a strange land.

  Out of the blue, Jake asked, “Your bodyguard, Qurb, he’s not around?”

  “On holiday,” Conor replied. “Hunting goats in the Armenian Highlands.”

  The offhanded comment piqued Lindy’s interest, but she divulged nothing. Grasping Jake’s arm confidently, she looked at Conor and said, “Lead on.”

  The library was a small room, just off the parlor, where the Kazimov-Kedar strategy meeting had taken place the day before. It had been repurposed and redecorated. It was now a reception room for the Secretary’s meetings—not embassy business, but other business. It had been debugged, sealed off, and secured with bulletproof windows and doors. Kazimov had given the Kedar Bey the entry code for the evening.

  Conor walked to the liquor cabinet, and then asked, “Lindy, what will you have: wine, beer, whiskey?”

  “White wine would be nice,” she replied. Conor poured one glass for Lindy and one for Tali.

  “Jake?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “He’s got Johnnie Walker, Glenkinchie, and Jameson.”

  “Let’s have Jameson. That was Papa Martin’s favorite whiskey.” Unwittingly, Jake had opened the door to the secret he so wanted to keep hidden. But in that split second, Conor was unwilling to confront his brother about the treasure.

  Conor persisted with the casual exchange, “Jake, are you still working at the Port of Chicago?”

  “Quit last month. I decided to go back to school. I plan to finish my education at Trinity in Ireland.”

  Conor squeezed his eyes shut and mulled over his thoughts before speaking again. “I think Papa Martin and his brothers went to school there.”

  Jake replied, “Maybe so. I’m not sure.”

  “Trinity is expensive. I can help if you need some money.” Conor’s words were offhanded, but his thoughts were: Is that why you sold Papa Martin’s Treasure… to go back to school? Doesn’t sound right. The treasure belonged to our father, Jake. I only wanted a say in the matter.

  Hoping to avoid an embarrassment, Jake said, “I’ve got it covered.” This first brotherly encounter wasn’t going as expected.

  There was a long pause in the conversation, so much so that Tali felt she had to change the topic. “Bedrosian, that’s Armenian, right?” The question was disingenuous. Tali knew the answer. Nevertheless, her entrenched Azeri cultural bias was rearing its ugly head.

  Lindy was taken aback by the pointedness of Tali’s interrogation. “Armenian-American,” she replied. “My family has been in America, in Chicago, for generations.”

  But Tali went on the offensive, “So, Lindy, tell me what you do in Chicago.”

  It was the nastiness of the way she said, “do” that made Lindy cringe. Tali’s emphasis was clearly discourteous, her tone off-putting. But Lindy had a stock answer, which usually satisfied most in a casual chat, “I’m a technical planner,” she said.

  The response was meant to be evasive, though it only piqued Tali’s curiosity. “In what field do you do this planning?”

 
Lindy replied, “I work at UAVtech.”

  The acronym didn’t clarify anything, so Jake jumped in, “Drones. She means drone technologies.”

  “For the military?” The temperature in the room was rising.

  “Mostly business applications, you know: pipelines, electric transmission lines, those kinds of things. But yes, our hyperspectral pod system is one of our latest military apps.”

  Knowing that their secret links to the Vartans might suddenly be exposed, Jake jumped in. “Don’t get her started. She’ll bore you to death with analyses.” Lindy knew what Jake was doing, and she didn’t like it. She could speak for herself. But she needed to cool down, so Lindy stood up and walked to the far wall, to the window there, to see if anyone was still coming in from the courtyard.

  Seeing the friction building between the two women, Conor attempted an intervention. He turned to Tali and said, “Jake and Lindy know nothing about the old culture wars between Armenia and Azerbaijan.”

  But Lindy responded instantly, “Oh, I know all about those tensions.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” Tali replied. The cooling down period hadn’t lasted.

  Conor’s eyes widened, and then he frowned at his now tough-talking cousin. “What about your mother, Jake; how is she doing?”

  At that propitious moment, Secretary Kazimov and his butler burst through the door. An entourage followed closely behind with desserts. The butler made a short presentation about the Azeri dessert called Shekerbura, and then the servers continued with the table setting. “Can I refresh the drinks?” one of the waiters asked.

  “I’ll have another Jameson. Make it a double, will ya?”

  Lindy objected, “You’ve had enough, Jake.”

  “Anything else, sir?” the butler asked.

  “Thanks, we’re fine,” Kazimov responded. “Please close the door when you leave.”

  “Glad you could join us,” Conor said. After a few minutes, the tension in the room subsided nicely, and the balance of the evening was spent enjoying casual conversation and the shekerbura.