Sihara (First Chapter)

This is the first installment of my yet-to-be-published novel

This is the first installment of my yet-to-be-published novel, Sihara, a story about a man whose life was a mess until his soul slowly woke up.

I ran across the street, taking the risk because even by my abysmal standards, I was running late. A cab swerved towards me, forcing me back to the no-man’s land of the double yellow line in the middle of the street. I checked the toes of my shoes for tread marks before attempting another crossing. The toes of my shoes were miraculously tread free, allowing me to attempt another crossing. I had once written a satirical article on the underground Olympics for cab drivers, points awarded for non-lethal contact with pedestrians and exchanging paint with other vehicles in accidents too small to justify a trip to traffic court. The article was printed in a local paper, unfortunately accompanied by a photo of me. It was scathing and hilarious, earning me domestic kudos and a couple hundred bucks. It also made it impossible for me to catch a cab for months after that. I rolled with the punches and wrote another article describing the subway system as a depressed third world country existing under Manhattan, separate from the United States, with its own language and customs. This caused a slight rise in taxi use and redeemed me in the eyes of the taxi drivers.

A bus blasted me in the face with toxic fumes before I landed safely on the other sidewalk. Heading uptown I saw Louie sitting on the hood of a parked car, waiting. He was reading a newspaper, and the neck of a beer bottle stuck out of a paper bag on the roof of the sedan. I called out to him and he looked up, waving the newspaper at me before dropping it into the gutter. I assumed the bottle was empty because it sat, lonely and abandoned on top of a stranger’s car, as Louie hopped to the ground and walked towards me.

When he got close, Louie looked me up and down. “Gee, you look dressed up. I didn’t know the place was gonna be fancy.”

“It’s not fancy. It’s just nice. I can’t help it that your idea of fine dining is three slices of pizza to go.”

Louie’s eyebrows furrowed. “Was that an insult?”

“From the tomato stains on your tie, it probably wasn’t.”

“Yeah, well, I been waiting half an hour for you to show up an’ I think I deserve a little consideration.”

“I’m an hour late.”

“Yeah, an’ it really bugged me that I ended up waiting instead of you.”

I bit my lip. I had to write this review tonight and I hated dining alone, especially since my expense account allowed for dinner for two and I hated missing an opportunity to waste someone else’s money “Look, Louie. You waited half an hour but I would have waited half an hour had I been on time. The way I figure it, we’re even. If you don’t think so, leave half an hour early. That will definitely put you ahead.”

He crinkled his forehead, struggling with the math. “Nah. You’re an okay guy so I’ll leave on time.” We turned and headed uptown together. “Dat’s a nice coat. Where’d you get it?”

“It’s camel hair. I bought it at Brooks Brothers.”

He reached out and touched the lapel. “Real camel? I thought they smelled bad and spit.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Of your coat?” Louie asked.

“No. Of the camels’ smell and notoriety for spitting.”

Louie stopped walking and thought for a moment, looking perplexed, before guffawing. He drew stares from other pedestrians before hurrying to catch up. “You’re a funny guy. I guess that’s why people read your articles.” I nodded and kept walking. “Is that coat really made out of camels?”

“Would it bother you?”

“Nah. I just can’t figure out where they get the camels from.”

I glanced over. Louie was a disappearing breed, a manager at my dry cleaner. I wondered whether insulting him would be worth getting my laundry back three sizes too small. I decided to live dangerously since the seasons were about to change and I would be switching wardrobes. In any case, as a rule, I never restrained my sarcasm, even at the risk of physical injury. For me, it was an act of deeply seated faith that we were put here on earth to honor the gods of sarcasm by ridiculing the foolish. “So what do you know about camels?”

Louie slumped over in his cheap, polyester, trench coat. “You know, the stuff they teach you at the zoo. That they don’t never need to drink water ‘cause they don’t get thirsty. They like deserts cuz sand is good for their digestion. You know, stuff like dat. They sure didn’t mention nothing about making coats out of them.”

“I had no idea you were such a nature expert. Do you go to the zoo often?”

Louie wrinkled his nose. “Nah. It makes me nervous. All those animals walking around naked, letting everything hang out. You never know what you’ll see.”

“I have to say that your aversion to zoos with its Freudian overtones has me deeply concerned.”

“It’s nothing like that. The zoo just seems too hippy dippy for me. They try to cutesy it up but lions aren’t supposed to be cute. In the real world, if a kid ever got that close to a lion, it meant that the lion was two seconds away from having a light snack. The closest I ever want to get to nature is watching the pigeons dive bomb the car wash on the west side highway.”

Louie was turning out to be a surprisingly entertaining dinner date. I made a mental note to invite him along next time I took my daughter to the zoo. As amusing as he was, Louie was not a close friend. I met him at a bar on the way home from a cocktail party. The party was a total waste of time. It was supposed to be a gathering of Upper West Side intellectuals, academics and writers, but it turned out to be a group of untenured assistant professors vying to catch the attention of content editors for struggling indie publishers. Whoever made up the guest list had a taste for theater of the absurd. I was there for the free alcohol. The shouting and posturing drove me past my cynical self into the realm of unacceptably nasty. I had just jumped into the fray and ripped into an adjunct, challenging him to prove sociology was a subject or even a noun, when the host asked me to leave. I felt cheated since I hadn’t finished my quota of free booze. He caught me sliding a bottle of Norwegian vodka up my sleeve so I decided to top off my tanks on the way home. Louie, a regular at the bar, had struck up what he called a conversation. At one point, he told me his full name was Louie Lewis and I insisted on seeing ID to prove it. His middle initial was ‘L’ but I was already laughing too hard to investigate. When the last call came around, I was still thirsty but my wallet wasn’t up to the task. Louie offered to pay for the drinks and I promised him a free dinner. My offer wasn’t entirely generous. Since I write restaurant reviews and my expense account allows for a date, the drink was costing him more than the dinner would cost me. I typically used that allowance on women or friends, but most of my friends had been avoiding me since my divorce and my interest in casual dating had begun to wane at about the same time. Louie wasn’t much for active gray cells but he kept me amused and awake. He was the typical New Yorker that everyone joked about, never really believing he existed. I invited him, knowing that he would probably end up hating me after I wrote an article about him. Losing friends and getting a divorce was a business expense that I was still trying to convince my accountant I should be able to deduct from taxes.

The address of the restaurant I was reviewing led us onto one of those rare neighborhood streets in Manhattan that seem like mirages when you find them. Tree lined and pleasant, it was the kind of place well-intentioned parents would pay big chunks of their metro-salaries to live in and raise their metro-kids. It was still too early in the evening for the dark underbelly of city life to begin its nightly routine but this block seemed strangely immune to drug dealers and prostitutes. Louie even noted the difference with raised eyebrows and a grunt, followed by a mumbled, “Nice street”.

Of course he had to leave his mark; a sizable wad of gum stuck to the trunk of one of the stately elms. I pondered this local enigma for a few minutes until we arrived at the address my editor had given me. The restaurant was next door to a quaint, old fashioned, two truck fire station complete with pot-bellied, suspendered, old firemen playing cards out front. The trucks were out of date, cherry red instead of the modern lime green, but they were shiny and well cared for.There was probably an old, overweight, Dalmatian limping around somewhere with puppies tumbling after her. The NYFD apparently had a big enough budget so they could afford a vanity, vintage, fire station. Or perhaps it was funded by the neighborhood yuppies holding a bake sale and portfolio management party. That explained the absence of drug traffic. People who deal in narcotics have an aversion to uniforms of any kind. Hotels in New York invest in uniforms for their doormen for more than cosmetic reasons. It helps keep the criminal element at bay. The occasional midnight four alarm blaze waking them in the middle of the night seemed a small price for the locals residents for protection from an undiluted New York experience. It did get me to wonder about the brightly polished brass bell, fully two feet across, proudly hanging over the garage door, and the less prominent but more audibly effective modern electric siren mounted next to it. I tried to imagine how that would affect the dining experience. My reverie was interrupted by Louie grumbling.

“I’m hungry. Is this the place?”

I nodded. “ Petrovich.”

Louie pondered this, looking at the brightly painted sign over the door, his head thrown back, his lips working silently at the strange word. “Don’t sound Italian to me.”

I shook my head. “Russian cuisine at its finest.”

“Russian? What do they eat? Caribou?”

I laughed. “That would be Eskimo, and as far as I know, there has yet to be an attempt to open a restaurant featuring Polar Bear steak.”

Louie looked at me and smiled. “Don’t forget the penguin chips fried in whale oil.”

I was shocked. Louie had a full-fledged sense of humor. I smiled and tucked his arm under mine, escorting my date into the restaurant, my hopes for a fun evening beginning to rise. The restaurant was in a converted brownstone apartment and the entrance was the hallway of the apartment building. A tall and remarkably thin man was hard at work painting the walls with what looked like stylized Russian motifs. He was sweating profusely, biting his lip as he painted feathers on a large rooster, one feather at a time. A saddle was on the rooster’s back and a Cossack in a fur cap sat firmly in the saddle, waving a saber in the air. An empty plate, shiny with grease, sat on the floor next to him, hosting a pile of chicken bones that had been gnawed clean. The artist had apparently eaten his model, Cossack and all. We passed into the restaurant and I saw that the interior walls were covered with colorful paintings in the same style. The poor artist probably took payment in food and would have long ago died from hunger had the restaurant decided to decorate in sterile postmodernism. What he lacked in talent, he made up for in authenticity and enthusiasm. I had a feeling the chef would be working under the same handicaps.

We walked into a nearly empty restaurant, the maitre-hurrying over to greet us. He was so short that his cuffs dragged on the floor, making him look like a school boy running late for a piano recital. He was probably multi-tasking, greeting customers and polishing the floor at the same time. His sleeves were saved from disgrace by a few staples, strategically placed to look like minimalist cufflinks. I almost laughed out loud when I pictured paperclips holding up his oversize boxers. The shrink wrapped menus he handed us were sticky and we followed the tracks in the dust as he led us to a corner booth. He flashed us a nervous smile before rushing off into the kitchen, shouts erupting as soon as the double doors swung shut. I glanced at the menu, colorfully illustrated by the same artist who slaved away, starving in the hallway.

“Dey got a problem wit de printer. Da letters are all wrong.”

I laughed. “It’s Cyrillic. One side is Russian and the other side is the English translation.”

Louie struggled with the concept before slapping the menu on the table. “I ain’t no English major but dey still got problems. The English doesn’t make much more sense den da Russian. Since when does ‘pancake have an ‘m’ in it, and ‘salmon’ ain’t spelled with a ‘w’.”

Louie was right. The menu was amazing. At one point it boasted that “…the chef will be roasting the duck until tender and juiced…” and all of the food was cooked “… home style like the best restaurants in Moscow…”. The restaurant was only a quarter full but I figured it was still early. A man sporting the largest toupee I had ever seen began to stroll around the room singing Russian ballads, accompanying himself on accordion. A silver cup hung from the front of his accordion, the loose change inside jingling as he shimmied to the music.

Lou was suddenly impressed. “Dis is nice. I love da music. Real class. I bet they don’t even make ya pay until ya finish eating.”

“You’re probably right. But Louie,what do you know about Russian folk music?”

“Dat ain’t no Russian music. It’s pure U.S. of A. rock and roll. Don’tcha know da Beatles?”

I was about to correct Louie about the Liverpool origins of the Fab Four when it dawns on me the import of what he is saying. I listen for a minute in shocked silence. As absurd as it might be, Louie was correct. The words and rhythm were Russian but the basic melody, hidden under the lounge singer’s Soviet stylized flourishes, was undeniably Paul McCartney’s creation. In a misguided, overenthusiastic example of Glastnost gone tragically wrong, the words had been translated and the music horribly transposed to fit soviet scales. With a full volume, drawn out finale, the song ended and the musician unabashedly raised his arms, begging for applause like a puppy begging for treats. A couple in the corner applauded wildly and it took me several moments to realize they were actually serious. He bowed vigorously, almost sending his hair flying into someone’s soup. He began to prove all the laws of physics and musicology wrong by playing a Marley Reggae classic to a polka beat.

I was wondering how much of this I could take, even for the sake of notoriety and the few dollars the review might yield, when the maitre de on a mission of mercy showed up with a bottle of vodka frozen in a bucket of ice. Iced vodka is a wonderful Russian classic, the vodka becoming syrupy at sub-zero temperatures. The waiter flashed another nervous smile as he poured the unwieldy mass. His nervousness and lack of grace made me wonder if he was an actual part of the wait staff or if he might be a young boy dressed up as a waiter in a failed attempt at off-season trick-or-treating. The lip of the bottle wandered through the air over our table as the miniature maitre-de tried to control the slippery mass. It would have spilled but Louie’s shot glass followed it like a heat seeking missile, and, miraculously, not a drop was lost. When the bottle is safely back on the cart, the waiter grins, proving his Russian authenticity by flashing his stainless steel bridgework. “Compliments of the chef.”

Louie gulped it down and held out his glass for more. “Mm. Good. I love compliments. Say it again. But dis time like ya mean it.”

He struggled with the iced in bottle again, pouring quickly and rushing away before Louie could finish gulping down the second glass. It had all been very amusing but it was time for me to get down to business. I studied the menu while sipping the cheap vodka. Even at sub-zero temperatures, it burned my throat. I decided that I was certainly going to sample the caviar and blini. The borscht was tempting but unless it proved to be a beefy authentic version with a hefty glob of sour cream that could stand a spoon on end, I didn’t want anything to do with it. Most people think authentic grandmother cooking came from a jar with a picture of an old lady on the label. Real borscht was food for the czars. Imitation borscht could kill you and with the way things were shaping up, I wasn’t ready to take chances. I suggested to Louie that he order the borscht.

“You mean like the German car?”

“That’s a Porsche,” I said, stifling a laugh. “Borscht is beet soup. that keeps Russians cold in Siberian winters.”

“I don’t eat beets,” Louie said, looking uncomfortable. “They make me poop red.”

“Come on, Louie. For the sake of science. We are here to explore and discover.”

“Okay. But if I don’t like it, make da Rusky midget come back and pour me anudder Vodka.”

“It’s a deal.”

I ordered the Koulibac, knowing in advance that it would be bland and dry. The food came out quickly, too quickly to be made to order, and managed to live up to most of my worst expectations. The blini obviously came from a box and screamed out for maple syrup more than for the tiny portion of salty beluga that lay lonely and neglected in the middle of the plate. I ate the caviar with a fork, allowing Louie to smear the pancakes with butter and wolf them down. The caviar was less than mediocre, slightly freezer burned, and overpriced. The borscht, on the other hand, was a pleasant surprise. A big chunk of gristly beef floating in the middle and thick sour cream on the side was enticing enough to inspire a revolution. I stole Louie’s soup, promising him another double shot of vodka. I took my first bite of desert dry salmon when Louie tugged on my sleeve. “Check it out. Banana split. D’ya tink dey got hot fudge? “

I looked over and saw the miniature maitre’ de wheeling out a cart with a small sauté pan and burner for tableside service. The cart was laden with bottles of liquor, a bowl of banana slices in ice, and a silver pitcher of crepe batter. An ice bucket held a small container of ice cream. Sweat ran down his pale face and the maitre de looked like he was about to lay an egg for a tableside omelet. I love tableside service even though it is usually more of a reflection of the maitre de’s ego than a culinary improvement. Chefs get the big bucks because they cook better than a pretty face in a tux. But tableside service is a great way to impress your date so it still flourishes. Unfortunately, it was clear that this maitre was a stand-in and didn’t have a clue what he was doing.

I turned to my guest. “Lou, when I give the word, duck under the table.”

“Are you getting weird on me?”

“Just do what I say.”

“Look, if you ain’t got the bucks to pay, we don’t gotta duck out. I’ll spring for da grub. It was pretty good. I loved da Rusky flapjacks. Why’d it piss da waiter off when I asked for maple syrup.”

“ ‘Syrup’ is the Russian word for ‘man-love’. You’d think that a waiter in a Manhattan restaurant would be more open-minded.” I glance over and saw the waiter nervously sorting through the bottles on the cart. Disaster was imminent but my hangover was a thing of the past.

“Lou, just trust me on this. This is a matter of life and death that may also be good for a few laughs.”

He slammed back his iced vodka in one long swig and settled back into the banquette. “Okay. I’m ready.”

The musician chose that moment to arrive at our table. He was doing an Elvis tune, swiveling his hips for effect. I leaned around him, keeping my eye on the maitre de, watching as he lit the portable gas burner, placing a brightly polished copper pan over the flame. A delightful nutty smell drifted over to our table as he swirled butter around the hot pan, adding sugar and a dash of vanilla. The musician kept shimmying around, blocking my view. His grinding gyrations intended to draw attention to his rattling change cup hooked onto his belt were at my eye level, giving me a view I would have preferred not to see until my dinner was better digested. The tableside spectacle was moving along smoothly and I began to doubt my original fears. The miniature maitre de began reading the recipe from an index card, his lips moving silently, while the pan bubbled away on the fire. I wondered how you say ‘warning’ in Russian as he reached for the brandy. I turned to Louie.

“Now.”

Louie reacted like a marine in a firefight, sliding under the table without hesitation, grabbing his glass with the remains of the vodka as he went. I ducked down but kept one eye above tabletop level to watch the show. The maitre de began to pour the brandy into the pan, tilting it slightly to let the liquor catch fire for a proper flambé that invariably draws ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the customers. What he didn’t do, unfortunately, was to take the pan off the fire before beginning to pour the liquor. It seems tragic that despite the Russian setting, this poor idiot didn’t know that he was in the middle of serving up a Molotov cocktail.

I watched as the flame moved slowly up the arc of flowing liquid towards the half-filled bottle. The waiter’s terrified eyes followed the tiny blue flame in its ascent, glancing hopelessly at the index card for an explanation. The flame touched the lip of the bottle and a deep pop silenced the dining room as the bottom of the bottle exploded outwards. A ball of rolling liquid flame sailed across the room towards my table, hitting the musician squarely in the back of the head, setting his toupee immediately and completely on fire. I stood and swiped the burning wig from his head, throwing it to the floor. The maitre de came running across the room with a pitcher of water, spilling it onto the burning fur as he tried stamping out the tiny blaze, melting his rayon cuffs. I sat down quietly in order to watch the rest of the show. Louie, forgotten and forlorn, tugged my pant leg.

“You can come out now,” I said. “The dangerous part is over.”

Louie sat up ,surveying the scene of devastation, grinning at the confusion. Winking at me, he nonchalantly walked over to the cart, slipping a bottle up his sleeve to bring to our table. Black smoke was rising from the banana flambé sitting ignored, on the burner.

He poured for both of us. “Dats da first time I ever seen an ice cream sundae explode.”

In between the shouting of the disturbed clientele and staff, I heard a tiny beeping and smiled as I realized the show wasn’t quite over. I looked and saw the fire alarm blinking, noticing a telephone wire that led from the unit to the far wall. The alarm was hooked into a larger system. The enormous brass bell, barely muffled by the separating wall, began to clang. Even though I had known it was coming, I literally jumped into the air when it began ringing. I had just enough time to catch my breath before the siren kicked in, sending me into the air again. The firetruck may have been vintage but the response was diligent. Only a few seconds passed before a deep rumbling shook the walls as the ancient diesel roared to life. It only took the firemen a minute to check the alarm board for the address of the fire. The alarms fell silent and the rumbling died down but less than a minute passed before the sound of heavy boots came from the hallway. A moment later, the beautiful frosted glass door quite literally erxploded inward as five firemen, bulky with enough equipment for a large, multi-building blaze, stomped into the middle of the dining room. They looked a bit dazed until the maitre approached them. I smiled at the scene, half-expecting him to offer them menus. Instead, he mutely pointed at the smoldering toupee. One fireman hefted his extinguisher onto his shoulder and emptied it onto the bit of char-broiled fur. The poor musician screamed once before grabbing the remains of his toupee and plopping it on his head, despite steam rising from the chemical foam that now covered it. He indignantly exited the dining room through the empty doorframe. His jacket caught on the ragged glass remains but he didn’t slow down, leaving half of his suit jacket hanging as he forced his way out.

Louie watched him leave, a blank look on his face. “Gee, he looked angry.” He picked up a charred and smoking menu, flicking off some foam that had gone astray, and began to read. “What do they got for dessert that don’t explode?”

I sat back, content and poured us both a drink from the pilfered bottle of brandy, toasting Louie. This article was going to be a breeze to write.