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I first met the Bear on an unseasonably warm November afternoon.

We sat on his balcony and were supposed to be discussing a job. But I squinted against the warm sun, and the Bear puffed a thin cigarette as we drank coffee from exquisite tea cups. A lively little jazz number reached us from inside his den. The Bear’s paws drummed the tune in time.

This large omnivorous epicure smoked only hand-rolled cigarettes, which smelled like rain-kissed earth. He sipped only the darkest Turkish coffee, laced with just a touch of sugar. Naturally, he also listened to only the smoothest jazz, the transitions of which, he said, were made as flawlessly as can be done on any instrument in this world. He got quiet, closed his eyes and lifted his paw as if to command me to wait in silence for the next one. . . .

Later the conversation turned to a mix of language and politics. Growing up in Belgium with one parent from the UK and one from Austria left him speaking three languages, and he’s added a fourth by living in Tbilisi for nearly half a decade. He told me that people say the presidential palace is nicknamed the egg on account of its ridiculous round dome. Did I happen to know how to say “egg” in Georgian? he asked. Nowadays I use his golden blonde hair and slightly pale complexion mnemonically — kvertskhi!

Hours passed. The bear regaled me with tall tales, sprouted wings and floated above his chair. Oh, and would I mind not scratching the feet of mine against the throw-rug underneath me? It’s a Kakhetian weave, that one.

At last I left to return to work. Who cares whether I had nothing to tell my boss regarding the job. I had just met a bastion of the expat community! built by said cigarettes, local moonshine and hikes through god-forgotten upland glens.* 

In parting we shook hands. His grip was wrench-like, his hand nearly twice the size of mine. The pressure bore down on my palm. But as his grip tightened, his eyes softened. He told me humbly that it had been a pleasure, that I was welcome any time. In spite of myself I shot a furtive glance into his gaze in an attempt to find a flaw. . . . 

* * *
*I stole “god-forgotten” from A Lady’s Life by Bird (1960, 26).
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