White Niggers
Chapter 45
Timur's flat, Vorgartenstraße 177, 2nd district of Vienna
Saturday, September 7th, 2019, 16:00
Timur is trying to knot a tie in front of a mirror.
"I'm so glad you are here," Timur says to his father.
He turns his head around.
Timur's father Buba is texting. He is a man in his fifties. He is 6'2" feet tall and has a well-groomed short beard.
He wears a black jacket, black shirt, and a black tie. It's simple, yet so elegant, that a careful observer might ask himself: how come multiple wars and the fight for justice haven't dulled this man's interest in fashion and flair?
(A fight, by the way, which he won. And it shows.)
Thank God, few people are observant enough to ask such questions. There is something in the eyes of this man, in the way he stands and moves, that even wrinkles adorn him. Like old wine, he gets better with every passing year. That's why women admire him even without him unleashing the heavy artillery of his smile.
White men envy him for another reason. There is so much healthy masculinity in him that you think it's no coincidence that the white race was named after people from the Caucasus, not those from America, Europe, or Russia. And then they start thinking – why wasn't I born a Chechen?
This is Buba: how Timur knows him. But right now Timur sees nothing of his usual energy. Not in his eyes, not in his voice, not in his movements.
Maybe he is just tired, Timur thinks. A three-hour flight can drain your energy even before you land.
"How is Mom?" Timur says. "Does she miss Vienna?"
"Mmmhmm," Buba says.
Buba is still typing on his mobile phone.
Timur turns back to the mirror and tries on his new jacket.
Need to look good, Timur thinks. Dress for the life you want, not the one you have. It's curious: Lisa would love me even if I wore rags. So who is it that I want to impress?
In the mirror Timur sees that now Buba is looking at him, his hands in the pockets.
"You could be my wingman with regards to Lisa," Timur says.
He turns around.
"How do I look?" Timur says.
"Fine by me," Buba says.
Does he mean that I look fine, or does he agree to be my wingman? Timur thinks.
Buba arrived recently and unannounced. Timur figures he had some urgent business to do in Vienna. He stays in the Bristol, a five-star hotel in the center of Vienna. This puts him in the company of Leonard Bernstein, Giacomo Puccini, and George Gershwin, who once called this hotel their home. Gershwin wrote the piece "An American in Paris" there, which was prophetic, because few years later there were lots of Americans, not only in Paris, but around Europe, and many of them lived in that very hotel. After World War II, it was the headquarters of the American High Commissioner.
When I've made it, I will live in hotels like the Bristol, Timur thinks.
"Who knows, maybe you two will like each other," Timur says. "We may get married in spring."
"You are thinking about marrying?" Buba says. "How long have you known this girl?"
"It does not matter," Timur says. "I can tell you – she is the best woman in Vienna, maybe even in all of Central Europe."
Buba smiles as if he dangled the carrot of his approval in front of Timur. But the smile is so faint that the carrot feels like a stick to Timur.
Perhaps he spent too much time with the Austrians, Timur thinks. You hang around with them long enough, you start smiling like them.
"We'll see," Buba says.
The big news slides off him like bits of food slip off a frying pan covered with Teflon, Timur thinks. Nothing sticking, nothing changing. There is one more possible reason for his indifference.
"Are you alright, health-wise?" Timur says.
Buba's phone rings. He raises his index finger.
Timur hears the assertive, borderline aggressive way Buba talks on the phone. This is the Buba Timur knows and loves.
At least he doesn't look sick now, Timur thinks.
Buba is now making plans with his counterpart regarding going to the Naschmarkt ("Treat market"). It's an open-air market about a mile long. There are vendors selling spices, cheeses, and fresh produce from every corner of the world. Next to them are restaurants where you can taste Middle Eastern, Asian, Mediterranean, and European dishes.
It's a place where you can smell, taste, and savor the best parts of Vienna's diversity. If gluttony is your favorite sin, Naschmarkt is the mother of all brothels.
Buba is smiling now, as genuinely as someone anticipating a gustatory orgy. He hangs up.
"Timur, I need to meet someone," Buba says. "Let's meet at the restaurant."
He walks out. The door shuts behind Buba.
"Alright," Timur says.
We haven't seen each other in months, yet he has no time to reconnect, Timur thinks. Was his coming here just a courtesy call?