Skip to main content

Character


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).

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Portland Flashback

“Put this under your tongue,” Josh said, handing me three small circles of thin white paper. The club’s owner, a dubious character, not because of his whittled-away teeth or the stringy, wet hair plastered to the sides of his head, but because of the sheen over his dark pupils, had offered the goods to Josh. I hesitated, but then this sickly looking man gave me a friendly salute. And so, already three sheets to the wind, I placed not one but all three under my tongue. They were tasteless and dissolved in seconds. While I waited for the fun to kick in I scanned the room. Halloween: goth kids dressed up as vampires. Or — wait a minute — were they vampires disguised as humans? The room was changing. I looked over at Josh to make sure he was still there. The pudgy motherfucker, with a serene grin on his face, was lost in the screeching music. All of a sudden I caught the hungry gaze of a vampire, its eyes comically wide open. Don’t look at me! Averting my eyes I watched as the wal...

No. 6

To my dad My intestinal fortitude can be summed up in one basketball game fifteen years ago.  It was my junior year in high school, about halfway through the season. I was supposed to be improving and readying myself to play full time on the varsity squad the following year. On to glory. But my will failed me. And to think of my actions now makes my heart hurt. The ankle had been sprained but was undoubtedly on the mend. By half-time, though my body felt as light and nimble as it ever had, I was defeated. Barlow, the lively bastards, had us down big, and were showing no signs of slowing. The full-court press was kept up in spite of the lead. We had spent the first twenty minutes watching their guys take the ball from us and drop in easy lay-ups. They seemed to have sprouted wings. Instead of talking to my teammates and suggesting a strategy, I would take the inbound pass and delude myself into thinking I could break Barlow’s press single-handedly, dribbling ...