Chapter Five

Gunar was sleeping soundly on the sofa when the phone rang. After his large lunch of pork stew at the Pines Café, washed down with a couple of pints of beer, taking a nap was entirely natural. Gunar was a great believer in the natural order of things. Certain people were created to rule over others. Certain behavior was expected by subordinates. An afternoon nap after lunch was part of the natural order of things.

So Gunar was annoyed to have this natural order disturbed, and he let his annoyance show as he answered the phone gruffly.

“Yeah?”

“Timur Rodenko speaking.”

Gunar straightened up.

“Yes, Chairman Rodenko. How can I help you?”

Indeed, Chairman Rodenko had a clear idea of how Gunar could help him. Chairman Rodenko would not have otherwise called. He considered Gunar a lazy and greedy man, an opportunist. But, like many opportunists, he was extremely useful.

“Your friend Emin. He is still working as a national artist, correct?”

“Yes, he is. I saw him this morning. Is there a problem with his work? I will talk to him directly about it. We are not really close friends, by the way.”

“No, there is no problem that I know of. Not with his work. But something else has come up. The committee noticed that the portrait of Our Leader at the Star of the Motherland Metro is hardly visible.”

Rodenko was quiet a moment. He tended to speak softly and slowly, using uncomfortably long pauses for dramatic effect.

“This situation must be remedied,” he continued.

“Of course. Yes. I will contact Emin immediately. The tree will be removed before the end of the day.”

“Gunar,” Rodenko said slowly. “I didn’t say to remove the tree. Our Leader revered this particular species. It too is regarded as a national symbol among some of the peasantry. The tree should remain – but its branches must be substantially trimmed so that the portrait is completely visible. This requires some degree of artistry, so I thought your friend’s assistance might be appropriate.”

“I’m sure that Emin will be happy to assist in this task. I will contact him immediately.”

“Thank you. Oh, by the way. I noticed that the neighborhood donations to the party have been stagnant now for the last three months. Is there a problem?”

The donations to the party came from the businesses in the Sahil District, which Gunar managed. Once a month, a government official and a party official would visit every business – from the car repair shops to the restaurants. The discussions were almost always polite, unless the necessary donation had not been received in the previous month. In those unfortunate cases, some sort of problem was inevitably found. The bathrooms might be deemed unsanitary, which would require the immediate closure of the restaurant. Even car repair shops had been closed because their bathrooms were unclean. The severity of the problem found directly related to the attitude of the business owner. In the worst cases, serious discrepancies in financial accounts would be discovered. This meant that not only would the business be closed, but the owner of the business could be subject to immediate criminal prosecution.

The rules were well understood by everyone and only rarely were such measures necessary. But the economic stagnation in the country had begun to affect the local businesses. The local business owners simply were unable to bear the ever increasing level of donations requested by the party. It had been a long time since Gunar personally had made these fund-raising visits, but he knew the people who collected for the party and he knew the local business owners. After all, they were his customers. Gunar could be callous about people’s feelings, but he was perceptive about how they spent money. And he noticed how even the successful businessmen were spending less.

“There is no problem that cannot be solved with greater discipline,” Gunar said, quoting President Alidev.

“Very well. I am glad you will take care of this,” the chairman said, and hung up.

Gunar, in fact, knew that he could take care of the problem, but it would not be easy. Although he had a slight headache from the beer he drank earlier in the day, he actually relished the challenge that Chairman Rodenko had given him. He sat on the sofa, listened to the traffic below, and considered the alternatives. It might be easiest to completely liquidate one business, rather than require an equal amount of funds from all the businesses who regularly donated to the party. If done correctly, this very liquidation could be used to spur the other businesses into greater generosity. The remaining businesses in the district would understand this fate could await them too, if they were stingy in their support for the party. But which business should be liquidated? Gunar picked out a piece of pork from between his teeth with his index finger and pondered his dilemma.

Taking care of the Chairman Rodenko’s other request was easier. Emin was finishing a lunch of rice soup in his tiny kitchen when Gunar called. Although Emin was looking forward to an afternoon nap, he understood that a request from the Chairman had to be honored immediately. Within five minutes, he had donned his work uniform again and was running down the dark stairwell of his apartment building.

Emin knew the tree in question. The oak towered over the small groups of men who often played dominoes in its shadow. Ten years earlier, all the other trees in the square had been removed in order to create a flat tiled surface better suited for parades and assemblies. But this oak by some strange oversight had been spared. As he approached the Star of the Motherland Metro Station, Emin observed that the poster was nearly completely obscured by the tree. Only large forehead and the eyes of the dead president were visible, peering above the thick crown of the tree. Emin well understood the outrage of the party committee, although he was reluctant to cut the oak. All too few of the trees remained in the city, he thought. Over time, they had been cut to create space for grand tiled expanses. Such places were perfect for athletic displays and parades, but were of little other use. People enjoyed sitting under trees, and the benches erected in these newly created tiled and unsheltered squares were usually vacant for most of the day.

But Emin was glad at this point that no one was playing dominoes under the tree at this hour. He didn’t want an audience for this job. After a moment to contemplate his task, Emin swung a rope over the lowest branch, and quickly clambered up to the lowest set of branches. He had climbed trees since he was a boy in the north of the country, and the climbing skill remained with him like a second nature. Oaks were fine for climbing, with strong, evenly-spaced branches. He stood on the thick lower branch and looked up, feeling the coolness of the tree, its rough dirty bark. He looked at the ants crawling on the trunk, and looking up, he noticed a large bird nest in the top branches. This was unfortunate. Emin liked birds, but he had a job to do.

A few more minutes, and he had reached the branches that covered the poster. In the crook of one of these branches, he noticed the bird nest. It was empty now, but he guessed that it belonged to a couple of crows that sat on a nearby lamp post, angrily cawing at him. Twice they flew up, circling above him. But the nest was empty, and Emin knew the birds would just make noise. He began sawing at the necessary branches, but work was slow. The ants crawled on his pants and his shirt, biting him occasionally. The birds continued their outraged commentary. As the saw blade cut deeper, it got bound up in the green wood, slowing his task even more. First, he was sorry for the tree he cut, for the birds whose nest he destroyed. But as his work continued, he became annoyed, irritated that he was here at work still, irritated at the birds, at the tree that required such trimming. He cut one branch off and watched with satisfaction as it tumbled to the ground. The second branch was narrower and easier. Finally, he cut the branch that held the crows’ nest. The wood crashed noisily down through the lower branches, upsetting the table under the tree and scattering the nest across the pavement. The birds flew up again, angry, circling above the tree. Emin looked over to the poster. Yes, now the dead president could be easily seen from the square. This was good.

Chapter Four

While Buna slept for the next 12 hours, the psychiatric ward hummed with unusual activity. The ward, of course, was always active with patients in varying stages of inebriation or detoxification. They smoked, yelled, and paced. The more healthy ones played cards or checkers in the lounge. This week, however, marked the beginning of preparations for a special visit from the First Lady to the hospital. It was unlikely that she would visit this ward, where the patients were much less photogenic than in the wing where sick children were housed. Nonetheless, the hospital administration felt it advisable to thoroughly clean the hospital wards, removing broken furniture and applying fresh paint to the smoke-stained walls.

In the process of these renovations, a glaring omission came to light. The psychiatric ward contained not a single representation of the Father of the Country! The ward, which was not spacious, obviously could not contain one of the larger-than-life portraits that adorned city parks. But the portraits of Heymar Alidev were available in infinite gradations of size, so it was hard to understand how this error had occurred.

So while a crew of four men painted the smoking room, Burgar Hadiler, the hospital director made his first visit to the psychiatric ward to talk with Dr. Semonova. Burgar , who was impeccably dressed in a gray suit, carried a small catalog that listed the various representations of Heymar Alidev that were available through the government information agency. These portraits and statues, it should be noted, were not free. The agencies that purchased these items paid a fee to the information agency, a sum subsequently paid to the New Azanistan Party, which owned the publishing rights to all images and words of Heymar Alidev and his son.

To his credit, Burgar was more active than many party loyalists placed in positions that afforded them a large and secure income for only the most token labor. Burgar was easily bored and distracted, so he made a point to personally visit some of the doctors from time to time, ascertaining their political beliefs while bolstering a certain reputation for a direct management style. On these visits, which many a bureaucrat would have regarded as demeaning, Burgar frequently went without an assistant, itself a practice that was almost dangerously strange. As he strode through the hall to the office of the head doctor, the nursing staff blushed and hurried ahead of him. Burgar, a handsome man with wonderful teeth, smiled at the nurse standing by the door as he knocked once and entered upon detecting a nearly inaudible reply.

“Hello, Dr. Semonova,” he said.

Dr. Semonova was seated at her desk when he knocked and entered. She did not rise. While Burgar had the best political connections, connections to which he owed his current position, he had only held the job for two years. Previously, he had been managing a company that imported cars into the country, until this profitable monopoly was taken over by a drinking buddy of the president. In the eyes of Dr. Semonova, Burgar was an unqualified political hack. In fact, he was not especially suited to the job, and as a consequence was generally bored and dissatisfied. Administering a hospital was generally dull, although Burgar was responsible for several innovations. Under his leadership, a high quality and highly profitable plastic surgery clinic had been created.

Burgar stood with the door open, waiting for Dr. Semonova to politely stand and greet him. Burgar knew her opinion of him, but he was equally hostile toward the doctor. She was a vestige of a previous world, a world built on the illusion of equality and idealism. The doctor had no idea about the laws of economics that now ruled the world in general and the functioning of this hospital in particular. Burgar did not want to dismiss her, but neither did he feel resigned to accept contempt from her.

Reluctantly, Dr. Semonova put down the medial journal she was reading, standing up to shake Burgar’s hand.

“Please, sit down, Mr. Hadiler,” she said, motioning to a hard wooden chair by her desk. But Burgar realized now how cramped and uncomfortable this office was. It was crowded with book shelves. The desk itself was covered with neat piles of papers and journals. The only decoration in the room was a small photograph on the wall of a house in the mountains, a house where Dr. Semonova had spent her summers when she was a girl, before the war. The house had long since been destroyed, and the land was now occupied by Argania, but the memories still lived, albeit dimly, with Dr. Semonova. The faded photo caught the eye of Burgar, who walked over to the photo, examining the picture closely.

“Beautiful. Very beautiful. Are you from that region?” he asked.

“My family had a small cottage there. It was my grandparents’ place originally.” Dr. Semonova realized that having family from that area could mean that she also had Arganian blood flowing in her veins. Even Dr. Semonova, who disdained all forms of politics, realized this could create unpleasant consequences for her. And yet, she had an instinctual and awkward habit of honesty.

“Interesting. Well, I really can’t stay. I am interested, as you know, to better understand all the departments of this hospital. I think I can better understand your situation here, after actually seeing this department. It seems, in fact, that your facilities are in very good shape. You have some new furniture out there in the hall. Freshly painted walls. All you need is several of these portraits. Art, I think, should inspire people to do their best. It should offer positive examples. How can your patients reach their potential, if they do not have such positive examples before them?”

Dr. Semonova felt her insides shake as she restrained herself from an angry response. In fact, the new furniture and fresh paint was fine, but in fact the operating budget was inadequate and would continue to be inadequate. For the most part, the staff depended on the payments from the families of the patients. If a patient had no family, then the diet for that patient would likely be a thin potato gruel three times a day, supplemented with bread. The availability of necessary drugs was uneven, and a drunk that happened to land in the ward at an unfortunate time when the drug supply was exhausted might suffer painful and dangerous withdrawal symptoms.

“Yes, it’s very nice of you to paint the lobby. We appreciate that. And I appreciate you taking the time to bring me this catalog. I will immediately determine where would be the most appropriate place for a portrait of our president.”

Burgar smiled broadly. He was pleased, like the dog who has forced a rival to roll over into a submissive pose. He felt no animosity toward this pitiful old woman now.

“Good. I think you can find several places for portraits. It would be better if you did. I think, in fact, we have a nice portrait that would fit right there,” he said, pointing to the spot where the photo of Dr. Semonova’s childhood refuge hung.

His eyes met hers, searching for any faltering in her submission. But she nodded, after a moment of silence.

“Yes, I think you are probably right. I will see if I can find something that would fit.”

Chapter One

About a year ago, I wrote a long story - as opposed to a short story. It reflected various thoughts and impressions - material that was not appropriate for the formal reports I wrote during that time. It is copyright protected material - and it is all my own. There are definitely resemblances between the characters in the story & people who are living. In fact, sometimes I would describe a character - and then meet that actual person not long after. Very strange. And there are resemblances between real places and the fictional places in the story. But I did not want to sacrifice a larger truth for the sake of trying to make every detail strictly accurate. Hence - names of places and people have been changed. I hope in some ways the story is amusing or illustrative or at the very least interesting.

Here is Chapter One. Chapter Two will follow - in about a week.

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Chapter One

Emin Husadzev took a moment from his job to enjoy the sunrise. He was perched on a 20-foot ladder, pasting a large poster of the president’s father onto a billboard that towered above the central square of Berme, a small provincial city of Azanistan.

On June 21, the sun was rising early, and an orange light suffused the square, reflected from the pavement still wet from last night’s rain. At this hour, few people were driving, and the only sound was the scrape of straw brooms on the sidewalks. Three women wearing saffron-colored smocks and bright headscarves swept the pavement clean. This was the ideal time for Emin’s work, with enough light to let him apply the posters neatly, but before the streets were busy. Ideally, people should have the impression that the images on the billboards naturally stayed fresh and new, that they were somehow self-replicating, not dependent on human hands. This morning, even the poster of Heymar Alidev seemed to glow in the light of the orange dawn, adding life to an image that had grown flat from repetition. All the residents of Azanistan long ago had become inured to his visage, because posters of him and of his son decorated every public space in the country. But Emin took a professional pride in his work, and while he knew the posters were not art, he tried to apply them with professional care. He was certainly not ignorant of the repetitious nature of posters, plastered on walls, posted by highways, hung in schools and offices. Emin had held this job for the last year, so he knew every small feature of the father and son – the squinting eyes and thick eyebrows of the father, the indolent gaze and slight smile of the son.

The poster of Heymar Alidev now smiled into the sunrise, and Emin smiled too, admiring his work. He had applied the poster smoothly, with no wrinkles marring the surface. The presentation of the posters be especially important now, because birthday celebrations for the president, who died five years earlier, were planned for the next week.

“Hello, Heymar,” Emin addressed the dead president. “You are looking fine this morning.” All that remained was to paste the inspirational quote from the Heymar Alidev at the bottom of the poster, and this billboard would be complete.

“The Azani people draw strength from unity!”

Emin unraveled these words and applied them at the bottom of the poster, climbed down the ladder, gathered his tools and walked down the still empty streets to the main square for some tea.

Few people were drinking tea in the Pines Café at this hour. Other than tea, the café served small soda cakes, but they were usually stale. The regulars just drank tea. Emin took a table by the window, and in a few moments Pavel, one of the waiters, came over with a small pot of tea and a cup. He put them on the table in front of Emin, and then sat down opposite him.

“Has she come back yet?” he asked.

“No.”

The question was direct and uncomfortable, but the two men were friends, and Emin knew that Pavel’s intent was always good, even though his style was usually rough.

Pavel, one of Emin’s few friends, was one of the handful of Russians who remained in this city after the country declared its independence from the Soviet Union, A former newspaper editor, Pavel now waited on tables because his newspaper had been closed by the government, and no other newspaper would hire him now. He was a good editor, but a terrible waiter, always forgetting orders and spending too much time chatting with customers. But Gunar, the owner of the café, kept him employed, because long ago he had a schoolboy’s crush on Pavel’s mother.

“She didn’t call?” Pavel asked.

“No.”

“She’s not at Zamine’s?”

“No, I’m pretty sure about that.”

“What are you going to do?”

Emin took his cup of tea, blew on it softly, and watched a taxi impatiently race by a soot-spewing city bus.

“I don’t know.”

Emin’s wife, Buna, had disappeared, again, two weeks ago. Buna hadn’t disappeared for at least six months, and in any case it was unusual for her to stay away for two weeks. When Emin married Buna 10 years earlier, she had been strikingly beautiful, with piercing dark eyes, and the body of gymnast. Her years of drinking had since taken their toll. Her eyes were now not so bright, and her forehead bore the scars of her falls. But she still had a certain magnetism, so once she started drinking, Buna would start to act as if she were again the young courtesan, charming her male admirers. Of course, she was no young courtesan, and her male admirers were more likely to be rough middle-aged truck drivers than charming young men. And, once she started drinking, she completely lost control, finding herself in dangerous and compromising positions. Once, she had awoken from a blackout and found herself in a small hotel in Russia. That had been six months ago, and Emin had nearly divorced her at that point.

After that experience, Buna had agreed to stop drinking for awhile, and even went to a new church in Berme, where the kind members of the congregation prayed for her soul. Emin began to hope that they could begin to love again, and in fact they had sex not long before she disappeared. But one day, he came home from his job, and he knew right away, she had gone. There was no note, no physical sign. She could have been at her job in the laundry, but he knew the truth. She had gone.

Emin tried not to worry about her, but of course he did. When the church members had learned that she was gone again, they told Emin they would pray for her, and Emin prayed for her too, but it felt mechanical and empty. And when he prayed for her, he found himself imagining her in the arms of some strange man, and he felt dirty. It was less painful just to not think of her.

Pavel and Emin sat in silence, looking at the city square as the streets began to fill with morning traffic. A small gang of beggar children was bothering the people who wanted to use the nearby money exchange booths. Women were already carrying large bags loaded with fruits and vegetables back from the bazaar, located a few blocks south of the café. They were old friends, and could sit indefinitely in silence together. Their contemplation was interrupted, however, as Gunar entered the café, slamming the door. He sat down noisily beside Emin. Pavel hurriedly got up, avoiding Gunar’s angry eyes, and bustled back to the kitchen.

Gunar had pulled strings to get Emin his job, and ever since then considered that Emin was indebted to him. Gunar was, in fact, annoyed that Emin seemed to have forgotten his debt to the café owner. Emin, who was trained as a painter, had been unemployed for more than year, depending on his wife’s meager salary as a seamstress when Gunar’s friends in the New Freedom Party told them that they needed someone to put up posters of the president and his father. Every town and city already had posters that graced every public space, but these posters naturally needed to be replaced periodically. It would be disrespectful to depict the Presidents Alidev with tattered or dirty posters. Furthermore, the party leaders were certain that further opportunities for publicizing the President and his father existed. They would always exist. New places could always be found for new billboards. So Emin was hired as part of a small regional team that was assigned the task of replacing the old or decaying posters and finding places for new posters. He was given the title of “national artist,” although very little art was required in the application of adhesive to flat surfaces.

“I saw the new one this morning,” Gunar said. “Very nice. Very nice. You are a true artist.”

“Thank you. Yes, I like it too. It’s bright and cheery. The flag in the background is inspiring. And the quote too. I’m putting up another one up in March 20 Square, later this morning.”

“Good, good. I like your work. You should be proud of yourself, turning your life around. Doing something useful.”

“Thank you,” Emin said. “And thank you for helping me.”

Gunar grinned.

“I am happy to help. Our nation needs everyone. It needs everyone united, working together,” he said.

Emin turned to look at Gunar’s fat and satisfied face, but he could think of no reply. When he was working, Emin was able to separate himself from the goal of his job – the indoctrination of the population. But here in the presence of Gunar, that objective was all too palpable. Everything about Gunar - his meticulous thin moustache, his sour cabbage odor, and thick rings on his fat fingers – disgusted Emin.

“Yes, speaking of work, my next task awaits me,” Emin said. “I want to finish the installation at March 20 Square before noon.”

“Of course. Of course,” said Gunar. “By all means.”

The heavy man rose to his feet, and turned to the kitchen, where Pavel was chatting with the cook.

“Pavel, you worthless socialist! There is a dirty table here! Come here!” Gunar shouted.

Pavel was cleaning that table when Emin left the café, but he looked up to smile and wave goodbye.

Notes from a foreigner

While I am a native born US citizen, I often feel like I am living in a foreign culture. The language down in North Carolina is certainly understandable. Most of the time. But it's a different culture for me - born & raised a Yankee.

This came to mind this morning when I heard something on the radio about Confederate Memorial Day being celebrated today. According to Wikipedia, this holiday was officially yesterday in North & South Carolina. It marks the death of Gen. Stonewall Jackson in 1863 & the capture of Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederacy, in 1865.

In 2000, May 10 was made an official holiday in South Carolina, a compromise that also allowed Martin Luther King Jr. Day to gain status as a holiday. So, government offices are closed today, May 11.

I chatted quite a bit with locals yesterday & no one mentioned the "holiday." I didn't hear any "rebel yells." Didn't notice an unusual number of Confederate flags flying.

While the holiday didn't seem to spark much controversy locally, I do believe that the conflict is latent, not resolved. Just a few weeks ago, an African-American official in Alabama came under fire after removing Confederate flags from a graveyard. To African-Americans, the flags clearly indicate support for a regime that kept them in slavery. How can one note take offense at that? I have African-American friends who have expressed their feelings about it to me.

But for many white southerners, the flags mean something else. Pride in local history? Feistiness? I'm not sure. It would be an interesting subject for study - a good doctoral dissertation, but not mine.

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From another foreign country, Azerbaijan, I got news this morning from a friend about the arrest of about 50 protesters yesterday in Baku. The US Embassy actually made some pointed criticism of the arrests.

Arzu Geybullayeva, an Azerbaijani blogger, has some interesting observations on the current political situation in the country and some links to some video coverage of the protests. The students were seized because they were protesting that the government is refusing to allow days of mourning for the victims of the massacre on April 30.

I read about the arrests and I think about the "dictator's dilemma." I became familiar with this concept during a class I took on dictatorship taught by Katri Sieberg at Binghamton University. The concept is quite simple. Because the dictator's rule is absolute, in some ways his information about his own subjects is the most imperfect. After all, who wanted to inform Stalin about the failure of the five-year plans? Who wanted to tell Saddam Hussein about the condition of his army?

In this low information environment, the dictator is unable to properly assess threats to his rule. He faces the choice about how severely he should repress - harshly or not so harshly. The safer option usually appears to be harsh repression.

So, this is what the students face. The government fears that acceding to their demands will just lead to further problems. The authorities fear that if they loosen up and allow tacit criticism of the government, who knows where a little free speech might lead. (Remember the chants about corruption during the May 1 protests?)

By the way, even if you don't speak Azerbaijani, check out this video. I think it conveys some of the sadness and frustration among the students.