Chronicles of Fredrick D. Sauma
January 3, 2006
When Hassan told me that Zia had just passed away, I burst into an uncontrollable laughter. It was only some twelve hours before that we caught the lift together and he offered me a cigarette, as was his custom to offer me a smoke.
Hassan's expression was a fusion of anger and disappointment, as if my laughter was voluntary. As vividly as Hassan in front of me, I saw Zia approach the main entrance of our apartment building. His long, black coat and friendly smile unmistakable, even in the dark. 'Time to go to sleep son', was his last sentence- a mixture of alcohol and nicotine reeked repellently from his breath.
Despite our age difference, I felt we're as close as two dissident neighbors could be. I think having both left politics, for different reasons of course, developed a pleasant entante cordial between us. We felt safe with each other, for we were both under the mercy and protection of a foreign government.
There was much melancholy in his eyes the last few times that I spoke to him. More than usual I have to say. No one can conceal melancholy. It's behind every smile, humor, and expression. It has a world of its own with its unique set of precepts. And in Zia's case it had become the strength of his character because it was unwavering and consistent. Melancholy in him strived to be recognized and respected as a legitimate form of being in the world; like his once beloved communist manifesto.
His part-time job in the local kebab shop gave him enough money to drink flamboyantly in the pub a few times a week. A massive heart-attack finished him off in the lift lobby. By the time the paramedics got to him he was long gone to the world whose existence he vehemently rejected.
I first met him at the kebab shop after my evening German class. I didn't know we're going to become neighbors one day. His thick, wavy, dyed black hair and shinning green eyes made him look more like a Persian aristocrat than a dissident living in a foreign land. He was proud of his fluent German and often impressed people with the power of his rhetoric, specially after a few drinks. The pub, he gradually noticed did not converse in German much but in English, however. It was an Irish pub in a diplomatic quarter of town where foreigners, who worked at their embassies gathered for a drink and a chat when the day was done.
I was sitting in my usual table when Christine walked in the pub with a man. We hadn't seen each other since we shared a bed over a week ago. I had reviewed a range of possibilities in my mind as to how I should react when I saw her next. The scenario of her with another man never crossed my mind. I felt so unprepared and vulnerable. She ignored me and took a seat in the far corner. Was one week apart enough separation to start a new relationship? Certain moments in our intimacy, like a tantric dance, awoke new closeness in me.
When our eyes finally met she smiled and said something to her companion. I readied myself to go and talk to her when Rose entered the pub after a long absence and distracted me. She was an older German lady that I had my eyes on long before I met Christine. Having not seen her for a while I regrettably thought of her as a lost opportunity. Now she reappeared on the scene again. Rose lived in the newly built block of flats only minutes from the pub and worked casually in a few boutiques in the local district. She invariably dropped in with Hans, her gay friend, once or twice a week. And now she was on her own. What puzzled me about her was that I'd never seen her with a partner.
I told Mike to get her a drink. Saying my social security check was due in a few days and that I'll pay him back.
'You're a refugee,' he told me, 'stop acting like a bourgeois.' Mike whispered to me as a reality check.
'But I wasn't born a refugee.' I told him, 'and a proud bourgeois I'll always be.'
Mike knew my story. I was just finding my feet in the embassy when it was taken over by the zealot Islamic staff. And the hope of ever becoming a fully-fledged diplomat, serving my country was dashed.
Statelessness was the price that I had to pay for my freedom; so I remained in the land of the „infidels‰.
Mike delivered the drink to Rose as soon as she touched her seat. She looked pleasantly surprised and looked to my direction when Mike pointed to me. I raised my glass and toasted her. I noticed that Christine was watching me furtively from her corner. I walked up to her.
'Good evening my name is Fred.' I stretched my arm to shake her hand.
'My name is Rose.' Her hand soft and light.
'I know. I've spoken to Hans about you.'
'How strange he never told me.'
'We've seen each other here before haven't we?' I asked her, rhetorically.
'Yes. We have. But somehow never met.' She tells me and I'd like to think there's a subtle tone of regret in her voice.
We both picked up our drinks and sipped in one harmonious movement.
It's a friendly pub, isn't it?' She asked.
'Yes. I wonder what will happen to it if the embassies do move to Berlin?'
Having heard rumors about it among some diplomatic circles.
'Well, if it did, not only the pub but the whole Bad Godesberg would die. By that I mean businesses. It's the foreigners that keep the businesses alive here.' She tells me with a confidence of an economist, looking concerned.
'You haven't been around for a while. Have you been away?' I asked her, trying to bring the focus back on her rather than an uncertain future.
'You noticed! I've been to Italy for holidays.'
'Italy, it's a beautiful place.' I tell her.
'Have you been there?' she asked me with a childlike enthusiasm.
'No, but I feel I must one day.'
'You should go there. Italy is one of those places that everybody has to visit. So much history and arts. One could visit Italy forever.'
It was just after 11.00 pm that Zia entered and headed straight to my table. I'd learned to maneuver around him, since he always came to me first. Sometime after a few drinks, he moved about and socialized with other patrons and insisted that I call him by his first name, Zia, rather than his surname, by which I usually addressed him by.
'Hello son,' he says to me.
'Hello Mr. Hatefi.'
'Hello madam,' he greets Rose with a kiss on her hand.
Rose and Zia knew each other well for they had been living in the same neighborhood for the last ten years.
'Are we discussing the world's affairs? I tell you I'm not calling the shots in the kebab shop,' he pauses, then raises his hands to his nose and sniff them like scented flowers.
'Beautiful smell of barbecued beef,' he utters, 'What are you drinking?'
Zia always bought a round of drink for every one who happened to be at his table, whether they liked it or not. His generosity was almost dictatorial.
'By the way Hassan came to the shop. How are you going with him? Still having problems? The other night he asked the manager if the meat was halal. Ali, a good Moslem of course, told him he should ask before he eats and not after. How did you bunk up with him? You two are so different.'
'It's a long story. But I'm going to leave soon hopefully.'
'Yes, I know. You didn't probably have much choice.' He tells me sympathetically as if he was in a similar situation at least once before.
My incongruous living arrangements, however, wasn't something that I wanted to discuss in front of Rose.
'How's your beautiful daughter?' Rose asked Zia.
'She's fine. She'll be staying with me on the weekend.'
Zia was divorced from his German wife. His fifteen year old daughter, Layla, stayed with him couple of weekends a month. She spoke some broken English. Zia had never forced her to learn Persian and she had never felt the need to speak it. But she said that she understood some words, for her German mother was fluent in it and her parents' arguments were mainly conducted in Persian; another reason why she didn't want to learn it or speak it. The sound of Persian reminded her of unresolved disputes, and irreconcilable differences. And the shrill sound of its consonants in their shouts and hollers still echoed harshly in her young, sensitive ears.
Hans suddenly joined our table. Being from Bavaria, he once said, made him feel also like a foreigner. He made much effort to speak in English, thinking non-Germans couldn't understand his Bavarian accent. But his accent never disappeared, only the words were constructed and delivered slower which sometimes tested my patience.
I turned my head as I felt the presence of someone near me. It was Christine standing next to me with her companion behind her.
'Hi Christine.' I greeted her, automatically rising from my seat, kissing her on the cheek.
'This is Jacob. My brother's friend, visiting us. Jacob had studied in America and speaks very good English.' Christine introduced him to us.
'Does any body want to speak German these days?' Hans asked?
'Only foreigners like me who can't speak English very well, Zia answered back in German.
'Would you like to join us?' I asked Christine.
'No thanks, we're leaving. I wanted to show Jacob the pub. He's catching a flight back to London. I'm driving him to the airport.'
'Did you want to catch up tomorrow?' Hoping she would say yes.
'Maybe. I'm playing tennis with my brother. I might drop in for a drink later in the afternoon.' She tells me indecisively, casting a quick glance at Rose who seemed as unreachable as if still in Italy.
* * *
Preparation for Zia's funeral was underway. Layla, and her mother Dietrich wanted to have a nonreligious ceremony, refusing the offer of Ali, Zia's employer, to invite a clergy to cite verses from the Koran. He believed that Zia had long abandoned his communist ideas and had contritely re-embraced his good religion which was all evident from his charitable character.
'My father would turn in his grave if any one utters a religious word at his funeral. He never said anything about religion to me, ever. Only his friends and acquaintances need to gather around. That's what dad cared about most. ' Layla told us.
Acquaintances he had but friends I wasn't sure. He deserted them all when he left Berlin ten years ago, disagreeing with the way his comrades ran the Iranian communist branch in exile.
Dietrich was positive that around fifteen people from her side of the family would attend his funeral. Rose and I were confident that at least twenty people from the pub and the neighborhood would definitely come once they knew that Zia had passed away. And Bruno, the publican, also Zia's drinking partner, could manage the rest.
It was a cold day in late autumn. Layla, Dietrich, Rose and I drove to the funeral hall which was on a large country estate about ten miles north of town, not far from the farmlands owned by the Indian embassy.
'Zia never remained faithful to any thing,' Dietrich told me in Persian while Rose was driving the car and talking to Layla in the front passenger seat.
'What do you mean?' I asked her.
'I mean at the funeral it would be good to say that he was passionate about something and remained faithful to a cause. I'm sure you think other wise.'
Dietrich spoke with conviction. After all they had lived together for twenty two years.
'Now Layla thinks he was some sort of a political hero.' Dietrich sighing ambivalently.
'He was a great man. We all loved him.' I told her.
'Come on Fred, he had no friends. He lived a lonely life. He didn't talk with any one who differed with his views. He thought he alone cared about everything and the rest of the world didn't give a damn.' She tells me.
'He had a golden heart.' I told Dietrich. 'I loved him. The heart is the most important thing. Isn't it?'
'Yes, the heart is the most important but non of you have ever lived with him to know what he was like.' Dietrich uttered ever so calmly, like a soliloquy.
Then she dropped her head and became silent as if memories flooded her brain.
'Zia wanted to live several different lives simultaneously,' she continued, 'Political life, family life, social life, charity life, drinking life and they all encroached onto one another. And it was the family life that always came last on his list.'
She turned to her window, staring blankly onto the dark gray road.
The car took the right hand turn and climbed up the dirt road. On top of the hill stood a sequestered, old building with farmland and valleys stretching all around.
Rose and Dietrich began decorating the interior with candles and flowers.
I looked out the big glass window when a taxi pulled in. Dorothy got out, looking around for the entrance. Dorothy was a day patron at the pub. She worked for the British embassy as an admin officer for the last twenty years. I had no idea that she knew Zia.
Dorothy walked and embraced Layla and greeted Rose and me. She gave a formal greeting to Dietrich when Rose introduced her as Zia's ex-wife.
'No one told me that Zia had passed away. I just heard it from Bruno at the pub this morning. Who would have thought! So unexpected!
Her voice became tearful and she covered her face with her black, polyester gloves.
'He was a lovely man, a dear man. I'll miss him greatly.' She bursts into tears before regaining her composure.
The hall's decoration was finished. Long trestle tables of food and drinks were set up and people slowly began to trickle in. In the background Persian setar, Zia's favorite, played away lamentably. Bruno and Layla stood together and coordinated their parts as main speakers
My eyes began searching for Rose in the crowd. She was encircled by a small band of Germans. She turned her head toward me and smiled as if she knew I was trying to catch her glimpses through the waves of bodies and their drowning commotions. I smiled back, the blackness of her dress filling my eyes.
There were more people in the hall than any of us had anticipated. All activities came to a halt and people took their seats when Bruno stood behind the microphone. He tapped the microphone with his finger a few times to make sure that it was working. He seemed calm and in control as if he was going to make another presentation for some embassy occasion at his pub. Not far from him stood Layla.
He first began to speak in German then changed into pidgin English with his strong Italian accent. He wasn't sure what language to speak. He was aware that a good number of people didn't speak German but his English wasn't good enough either. So he said that he was going to speak in German and asked those who didn't understand it to raise their hands. Then he asked those who understood German and spoke English to sit next to the ones who didn't and interpret for them. Some people moved or swapped seats.
Layla slowly approached the microphone and Bruno asked her to read the elegy she has written for her dad. Some whispering voices turned into audible discussions as some of the interpreters were finding it hard to translate the poem into English.
After Layla's poem Bruno invited any one who wanted to share a memory of Zia with the rest of us.
I became nervous. I got up and walked to the front. Bruno gave me a faint smile. So many episodes involving me and Zia went through my mind. I hadn't really thought about what I wanted to say. Memories scrolled before my eyes. My gaze fell on Dietrich who sat in the front row staring at me. Did she really know everything about him, or knew him more than anyone else? Can these snippets of memories reveal more about Zia than her twenty two years of marriage to him? Who was the real Zia? My eyes then fell on Christine who must have come in unnoticed. She was sitting with her brother in the upper right hand corner, both staring at me. I remembered the afternoon she came to the pub, after her tennis. We talked about a lot of things except each other.
'With Zia I was myself, comfortable with who I was. I don't know how he did it whether he had a magic formula or not. He wasn't the happiest of men, but whenever he was with me he made me feel as if in him I had a good, reliable friend. What I liked about him most was that he never gave me any advice about what I should do in life, yet he assisted me whenever I got stuck. He showed much affection toward me. He was kind to whomever he drank with and I was lucky enough to be one of them. And despite our age difference, which is or was rather 35 years or more I felt we were great friends. And if I knew he was going to die so suddenly I would have told him how I valued my friendship with him, despite the fact that there was very little that I had to give him in return for his kindness toward me...'
I sat down feeling a bit critical of my little speech. Using the word „despite‰ twice. For saying, that he wasn't happy in front of Layla. Claiming his friendship. Saying he was reliable when in fact I had been critical of his insouciant conducts.
* * *
Later in the evening, when my thoughts were as scattered as on the day I packed my few personal belongings and left the embassy, I knocked on Rose's door with a bunch of flowers in my hand. She opened the door and let me in.
'Are they for me?'
'Of course, who else?'
'How did you know where I lived?'
'I remember Hans once told me that you lived in the same block of flats. So I scoured around until I saw your name on the door.'
'Why didn't you ask me at the funeral?'
I wasn't sure what I wanted to do after I returned. Then I thought what if you disappeared to Italy again and I didn't see you.'
She thanked me for the flowers and put them in the vase and placed it in middle of the table in the living room.
'They are beautiful.' she tells me.
'I think everything went well today, don't you?' I asked her.
'Yes, very well. Bruno was great!'
'He's a fabulous M.C. I think it's all in his Italian accent that's so warm and welcoming, putting people at ease.' I tell her .
'I was so worried, thinking we won't be able to get enough people and the big hall will look empty.' Rose said.
'I think Dietrich was right, Zia didn't have that many friends.' I told her.
'Yes, because he didn't want any.' Rose told me, always supportive of Zia. 'He talked and drank with whomever he pleased. He was a gregarious man. Everybody was his friend. People liked him.'
'But don't you think we all need a few close friends?' I asked her hoping she would agree with me.
'I'm sure he had some close friends when he lived in Berlin. But I think he didn't feel the need to have bosom friends. He was so friendly and sociable. Don't you think he was your friend? Isn't this what you said at the funeral that in him you had a reliable friend? That he helped people as much as he could.'
'I meant what I said about him. But I also believe that a close friend is someone you share your intimate thoughts with. Someone you look at as your equal. Zia never shared anything about his personal life with me. Did he ever tell you how he felt about life, himself or any deep issue in life?' Thinking this time I've cornered her well.
'He didn't need to. I'm sure he'd bashed his head with those questions before. Zia was very much a thinking man. With Zia what you saw was what you got. That's what I liked about him. When he was sad, he looked sad. When he was happy, he laughed and joked. He didn't hide his feelings.'
There were as many different pictures of Zia as there were embassies in Bad Godesberg. Perhaps Zia had a different picture of himself. I had to drop my postmortem examination of his character and hold on to what I believed of him, before time faded his memory.
As she stood by the kitchen making the drinks I got up and kissed her on the back of her neck. She stood still. I kissed her more. She dropped her hands to her sides. Her neck felt supple and the fuzzy hair in her nape was silky and warm. For a moment she appeared responsive as if she had been waiting for that moment for me to embrace her.
'Don't, please don't Fred.' She tells me.
'I love somebody.' She tells me like a confession.
I stopped kissing her and pulled back.
'Can I ask you who he is?' I became curious.
'He doesn't live here. I mean he doesn't live in Germany.'
'He lives in Italy?' I asked her.
'Yes, how did you know?'
'I thought perhaps your trips to Italy had something to do with it. Is this long distance love working out all right?'
'It's not going to continue for much longer. Tony's divorce proceedings will be over soon and we're going to live together in Rome.' She tells me.
'I'm happy for you. You're a beautiful woman and deserve a good man in your life.'
'Thank you.' She says.
'Tell me are you attracted to me as I'm to you?' I asked her.
'Yes I'm attracted to you. But it doesn't mean I'm going to sleep with you. We can be friends. I like you. I've always been attracted to people who looked different to German men. That's why I fell in love with Tony.'
After more drinks and more talks I left her, already thinking about my last unannounced visit for the night.
* * *
'Can I stay with you tonight?' I asked Christine, just as she opened the door.
'How can I say no when you're giving me so many reasons.'
'How many reasons do you want?'
'Tell me in the morning. I was just about to go to bed. It's late and it's been a tiring day for everybody.'
'I agree, let's get some asleep and we talk in the morning.'
'You can share my bed,' she tells me, 'you don't have to sleep on the couch. It's big enough for both of us. Do you remember?'
'Can I move in with you?' I asked her so unexpectedly that I alarmed myself.
'Because it's good for my German.' I laugh. 'I like you. I want to know if we could live together.' Hoping she'd believe me.
'What if we couldn't?'
'Then I move out.' My voice sounding more like a promise than a possibility.
'I'm not sure if it's a good idea. Our relationship is following a funny pattern. We met only two weeks ago. We spent one night together. Since then we spoke to each other twice...
I interrupted her.
'I think suddenly living together fits in perfectly with this unorthodox pattern. Don't you?'
'Let me think about it.' She tells me.
I put my head on her smooth, naked body, and wrap my arms around her torso. I wanted to ask her whether she'd slept with any body in the course of this last fifteen days. But then again I wanted a fresh start with her, leaving the past behind. Except aloofness not much had happened between us.
The same pleasant, jasmine aroma rises from her body as I clung to her like an altar, praying that all my chaotic longings may fall into some kind of order. But Dietrich's tired face flashed before my eyes. In those melancholy eyes were so many stories and memories that floated timelessly. She sat quietly and stared at those of us who wanted to paint a rosy picture of Zia. She looked at us like foreigners from far away lands, telling her about the man she once knew and loved.
I sank my head deeper into Christine's warm flesh.
© Farid Parsa