The Secrets We Live In: A Novel

by Fazle Chowdhury

  “What?” yelled Zain.

  He was completely shocked by what he was hearing.

  “Alexey, are you telling me some of the refugees are from my country?”

  “I am afraid so, Zain.”

  Disappointment fell over him. Zain stood by the bookshelves and flexed his arms to gain control over his emotions. Avinov approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  "My advisors tell me that the present trend can't continue. Once the refugees arrive in the British, Norwegian, and Swedish ports, that will be their final point, but they’ll go through parts of the Republique, and that’s when it will get complicated,” he said.

  “How complicated?” Zain asked.

  “Well, Toussaint believes the longer the refugees are in the Republique, the more leverage his opposition and also the right-wing groups that he mistakenly thought he could control will have.”

  “What does he really want?”

  Again, Avinov hesitated.

  “He wants you to take them back forcibly.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  Taking a deep breath, Avinov could offer little comfort, but Zain was a friend, and the relationship between the two had been excellent as long as they controlled any problems that arose. Together they had brought the Republique government to the aid of a nuclear deal, especially when the American administration backed out at the last minute. Had the deal concluded, it would have resolved sanctions in place since 1979, intended to prevent the further development and testing of nuclear weapons with added pressure to restrain their nuclear activities. Though some international aid arrived, past sanctions still made life hard for Zain’s government.

  The nuclear deal may have been the priority, but the two were instrumental in bringing other diplomats to work with them on issues related to debt, climate change, microfinance, and more. But now, their friendship was being tested, and the refugee crisis would certainly put Zain at a difficult spot. The truth was right in front of him that right-wing populists would flood the European Parliament in Brussels as long as the crisis continued. His party guests reflected it—some were categorically in line with these fears. And once they flooded the European Parliament, this refugee-phobia would spread beyond Europe.

  “Zain, keep in mind,” warned Avinov,

  “that there are mayoral elections for nineteen cities, including Paris, in a few months. Twenty-three mayors since 1947 have gone on to either become president or Prime Minister. If any right-wing candidates win even a minority of the seats contested, it will boost their party candidates to contest in parliament and even in the presidential election”.

  Zain rubbed his chin, caring little for Avinov’s warnings.

  “Paris can't fall to a right-wing mayor,” Avinov warned.

  “I don’t care about who runs for mayor of Paris, Alexey,” said Zain.

  “The nuclear deal is my priority.”

  “Sure, but bear in mind the Prime Minister will summon you on this matter, so you better have a plan by then.”

  Zain was quiet, trying to process everything he was told. Avinov saw Zain thinking, but he needed the younger man on his side. He feared if he couldn’t get Zain’s support now, there would be more than enough opportunity for his rivals to convince Zain of other options.

  "Your silence is deafening. Tell me something, anything," Avinov urged.

  Zain looked up to him but did not know how to handle the situation. If the nuclear deal was stalled, Zain knew he would get all the blame and be stripped of all the privileges he had enjoyed so far. But more importantly, the agreement would have increased his government’s monetary situation and could more than double the positive economic bounce in five years. Direct foreign investment pouring in would help create jobs. The economy would no longer be a controlled economy but an open one along the lines of progressive nations, something his country did not currently have but could. Yet now, the Republique government was holding his dream hostage.

  “No, Alexey. This is not my priority. My job here is to make sure an agreement on the nuclear deal is passed. Anything else I commit to must be something that pushes this deal through, and I’m not going to be held hostage,” Zain decided.

  “After all this, this how you treat our friendship?” decried Avinov.

  “Alexey, let me give you a sprinkle of education that your St. Petersburg upbringing did not provide. For centuries the Europeans have colonized, possessed, and looted these lands. Almost a century later, the problems you see—and yes, the refugee crisis is part of it—a direct result of these sins. Let them atone for them.”

  Avinov felt the power of these words, and he expected such from Zain but not from a man who was three glasses down.

  “Correction. In addition to my St. Petersburg upbringing, I also graduated from Sorbonne, Harvard, and Oxford. If you count honorary degrees—which I don’t—the list goes on. But let me sprinkle more onto your education in diplomacy, Zain, which at this time is lacking. You need to be on the right side of the club, a club that has access to get the deal that you so valiantly speak of and desperately need.”

  These words were confrontational but necessary, but this problem was too big for Zain’s hands. He didn’t want to deal with this on his own.

  "Zain, do the right thing," Avinov said.

  By now, he was growing impatient.

  "Aren’t you at least bothered by what you’re asking of me? A new political order is banging on the doors of Élysée Palace—it’s too big for me if not for you."

  "Ok, Zain, I’ve realized I can’t get through to you on this, but at least give me enough time to safeguard the Paris mayoral elections. Play along to buy me time. Would you do that for me?” asked Avinov.

  “And what do I do if communication from 2nd Avenue Gabriel comes back with a new offer?” responded Zain.

  Avinov’s fears were now coming to the surface. 2nd Avenue Gabriel was the location of the American embassy. For a split second, he thought hard of the one thing he could say to Zain that would prevent him from exploring that option at all costs.

  “I think they have other priorities right now.”

  Avinov hoped that was enough to convince him, but he knew the younger man would not spare old options under new circumstances.

  “Look, I really do understand,” said Avinov compassionately.

  “It looks like they’re throwing the towel in and washing their hands of past sins, but you wouldn’t refuse a friend who desperately sought your help?" Avinov rattled off the questions.

  "It’s not that I don’t care about the crisis. Of course, I do. But I'm not going to break my back and stick my nose in where it doesn't belong. The refugee problem will become out of control unless they begin a program of resettlement and rehabilitation,” responded Zain.

  "There is deeper trouble brewing, and your government will blame you—not the Republique —for its failure, but I want to grab hold of the situation as early as possible. Do I have your word that you’ll back me up, Zain?”

  “It’s a yes, but only if you stop helping Ambassador Bagratuni to purchase a large stockpile of weapons.”

  “Bagratuni? What has he got to do with this?”

  “Nothing, but neither did I and now look at me,” smiled Zain, opening his arms.

  “Zain, Bagratuni operates as a representative for his government just like you or me. I have no leverage over him or what he does.”

  “You don’t, but your president does.”

  Zain knew Avinov and his allies, including Avinov’s president, had worked to keep and maintain an old Soviet-era base functional with a combination of reservists, militia, and volunteers. But now, it was a state-of-the-art military base of five thousand special ground forces in the very same region Bagratuni was born.

  “It will be difficult. These things take time,” said Avinov.

  “You put a halt at your end, and I’ll give you all my backing and more,” said Zain.

  “You know Bagratuni is probably ju
st enrichening himself. What makes you think he is arming for war?”

  “Alexey, why take an inch when you can take a mile?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you could make money pre-war, would you stop there? Why not continue to make money during war and post-war?” Zain asked.

  “Ok, I’ll make a call but no guarantees.”

  “Good! For now, that is just fine,” cautioned Zain with a raw smile.

  To put his fears to rest, Avinov wanted to leave Zain to something to think about.

  "I don't know how you manage to do it."

  "Do what?" Zain asked.

  "Take everything so lightly during a crisis. I wish you could see what is happening right in front of your eyes. Something that needs priority."

  "Alexey," Zain stood and walked over.

  “I think you’ve always thought I was your student, and that is true to an extent, but like you, I have my demands.”

  "This probably never would've crossed my mind but take this."

  Zain handed Avinov one of the Meisterstuck pens.

  “Oh my God, where did you find this?”

  A genuine smile surfaced on Avinov’s face. Zain patted him on the back.

  "Now go enjoy the party. You should be in the garden enjoying yourself. Not stuck in here with me.”

  ╔ ——————————————— ╗

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  ╚ ——————————————— ╝

  “Make sure the caviar is separated from everything and placed at the center…at the middle of the table…the white-covered one,” said Chef Anton.

  He had instructed his waiters, all twenty of them, to align fifty bowls of them at the center of the long table. Surrounded by refined Pule cheese in two lanes on either side, along with ruby red cherry tomatoes and slices of Rolls Royce Bread, a delicacy Chef Anton prided himself on. On a separate table were large portions of Wagyu beef from Japan, decorated with a side of green olives.

  This was one of many nights in Paris when a reflection of taste went beyond the culture of dignitaries in attendance. The conversations induced by the food made way for new ideas. The security would not allow live bands since the last time when the band got drunk and laid waste to bottles of Zain’s Tempranillo, fresh from Granada.

  A few weeks back, Zain had converted an old opera house on the Pompidou, now filled its stage with artists and musicians. Commissioning some advertising executives, he assembled a group of promoters for the opera house, who were now at this party schmoozing with the diplomat crowd and creating scenes of glamor that were never before seen. Some people said that Zain would see all his sandcastles crumble in the past, but that hadn’t happened. Now the part of Paris that was most neglected lit up. Zain’s party was better than the ones on Ménilmontant.

  "This is quite the party you set up,"

  Avinov congratulated him.

  "After your lecture, a grand party is just what the doctor ordered," Zain laughed.

  "Enjoy yourself. We have every appetizer you could imagine."

  Zain watched as Avinov walked off and joined a group of other ambassadors. He looked around and smiled, happy to see the large turnout tonight, but as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t wish away the pending policy conversations.

  None of that mattered tonight. The rule was that everyone in attendance was a friend. Who could say no to a good time with the premises packed like sardines? He could move without taking notice of what he was doing every minute.

  Zain walked around the garden and greeted his guests, some of whom did not even know him. He tried to shake off what Avinov had said to him earlier. But it was hard. He made his way to the bar. Avinov’s words and the bashing from Charlotte ―like stones covered in caramel. Heavy and sticky but hard to wear off. Zain hoped the drink would make him forget it all.

  As he sipped the red wine, his mind wondered again about that woman he so adored in his past. He began to question why she was reappearing in his mind so often. On one side, she had been with him since the second she was gone, but on the other, she was what left him constantly alone, even in the company of others. Zain dismissed his feelings. Maybe it was the Parisian night, maybe he was feeling more alone than usual, or maybe the thought of her was the only thing left for him that made him feel connected to something among the large group of guests that barely acknowledged his presence. A tap on Zain's shoulder caused him to jump. He turned abruptly and exclaimed,

  "Edward, you jackass!"

  "You feeling all right, Zain?” asked Edward.

  They laughed and hugged as if they had not seen each other for some time. They hadn’t. Edward Blakensoff’s company had been involved in Zain’s adventures in horses and investments.

  "Stop the fucking formality. You know me better than that."

  Zain shrugged it off and laughed.

  "I've been greeting so many people tonight, and you completely caught me off guard," said Zain.

  "Can't say I blame you. It’s been a while, hasn't it?" Edward said.

  "That it has. Things have been out of control since I’ve been here," Zain said.

  Edward was a wealthy real estate mogul, and he and Zain had been good friends since Zain’s black filly Petite Etoile came second at the Sanlucar Horse Races in Andalucía in 2003. Zain’s horse may have come second, but the winning horse died a month later. Blakensoff left nothing to chance and was fortunate to bet on the top three horses. The two men were introduced by Blakensoff’s Swiss secretary Megali Meier –a beautiful businesswoman Zain had dated briefly. Under Blakensoff, she had worked her way up to become his senior advisor in African investments.

  “How is Megali doing? Is she here?” Zain asked.

  “No, you didn’t hear, then. She got married last year to this banker based in Nairobi, and she’s expecting a baby, so…you understand,” explained Blakensoff.

  Megali was someone Zain remembered fondly, so hearing that she was settled now was a welcome distraction.

  “Good, I knew she could have it all,” said Zain.

  “Enough on that. I was wondering,” Blakensoff whispered closely,

  “how the news of the crisis was affecting you. I can't tell you how glad I was to be in Paris this week.” Blakensoff toasted, but Zain didn't know what he was talking about.

  "Let me guess—another billion-dollar contract you hatched up somewhere in Paris?" Zain asked.

  Blakensoff was ecstatic, throwing back his expensive red wine before asking the bartender for another.

  “Put this on my tab, Monsieur. I don’t want the Ambassador to get nubbed over,” smiled Blakensoff.

  Zain laughed and shook his head. Blakensoff had already gone through three divorces. His first wife was a politician in Belgium. His second, with whom he had four boys, was a former Polish model and transportation heiress. His third was a barrister based in Edinburgh with whom he had two sons. At 55, he was going strong.

  “So, Zain, when can we get down to business? My man here in Paris tells me your staff doesn’t give him the time of day, even though he makes himself available on weekends.”

  Zain laughed. He knew any business with Blakensoff was a red flag from his staff.

  “Well, if you want to talk, call my cell directly. You can get the number from Megali,” laughed Zain.

  Blakensoff was satisfied. For a proven dealmaker like him, no friend of his was spared his ambitions, and no ambitions were unnoticed by his friends. His company was valued at $20 billion, but that didn’t stop him from maintaining a controlling interest in his Blakensoff and Friends Co., as he maneuvered many of the new contracts for his firm.

  As Blakensoff spoke, Zain noticed that he had a wedding band on his left hand.

  "Finally admitting now to be married?" Zain joked, interrupting Blakensoff’s story.

  A huge grin crossed Blakensoff’s face.

  "Making money is more boring than you think,” he said. Zain had heard rumors from friends tha
t Blakensoff was now happily married, but the big news was that she was quite beautiful and much younger.

  “But I have been married for more than six years now—don’t know why you think it’s recent,” Blakensoff continued.

  "Now that answers my next question,"

  Zain shrugged.

  "What’s this? Wife number four?"

  He shook his head.

  “Haven't you had enough with marriages by now?"

  "Absolutely not!"

  Blakensoff laughed. Zain was beginning to wonder if his friend had had a little too much to drink.

  "I'm telling you, Zain, marriage is great."

  "Considering you've had so many, it must be," Zain joked.

  "You know what, I think the fourth time's the charm!" said Blakensoff.

  "For you, charm is wasted and substituted by disaster,” Zain corrected.

  "Aside from alimony, I don’t see the problem. You remember my third marriage, Zain. Now that was bad."

  Zain thought back to when Blakensoff married his third wife. The marriage with Blakensoff lasted a mere nineteen months, the shortest of all his marriages. His ex-wife got a settlement that included the deed to his Westminster home. He had open visitation rights with his two boys, but he also had to pay ₤5 million a year with an additional ₤18,000 miscellaneous expenses. Zain felt he was extremely lucky that his numerous affairs were discovered after his divorce settlement. Something that could have bankrupted Blakensoff altogether.

  Zain knew Blakensoff did not choose his women wisely, and there were rumors associated with his businesses that caused Zain to think twice before signing any deal with him.

  “So, this time, it’s going to last?" Zain asked.

  "Oh, I know this time is bound to work!” replied Blakensoff.

  “And you think this because…”

  “Well, I haven’t cheated on her since our wedding day,” laughed Blakensoff.

  “Oh God…there are so many cracks in that sentence. I don’t know where to begin,” said Zain nervously.

  “I see that you don’t believe me. Well, let me show you my capital with equity,” said Blakensoff.