One Brother Shy

by Terry Fallis

  It was a landing page promoting a conference hosted by the Confederation of British Industry at the Savoy Hotel in London. A bright red banner at the top of the page pulsed to draw viewers’ attention.

  Please Note This Conference Programme Change:

  Due to unavoidable travel plans, tomorrow’s conference luncheon talk by the Russian ambassador, entitled “Future Trends in Russian–U.K. Trade,” will now be delivered by Alexei Bugayev, senior economist at the Russian Embassy. Tickets are still available.

  “Okay, we have another chance.” I turned the computer so Matt could see the screen.

  “It’s tomorrow at the Savoy,” Matt said. “We’re going.”

  And it was done. Matt reserved two tickets online, this time using a false name and the company credit card. So we had another chance. We spent the evening trying not to be discouraged. We had a few beers and ordered in food. That night I told Matt I felt like an Italian. But he seemed puzzled by the expression. Apparently, the line only works when you’re hankering for Indian food.

  Matt had to spend some time on Innovatengage work. The presentation to the venture capitalist was important and needed his focus. He spent a good part of the evening on the phone with colleagues who were still at the office.

  “If you have to go to the office, don’t worry about me,” I said. “I can wallow just as easily here on my own.”

  “Thanks, but I just don’t feel like going in right now. They’ve got it under control.”

  So we wallowed together until we both turned in early. I didn’t sleep much and I doubt Matt did either.

  —

  The room at the Savoy held four hundred people for lunch and they all seemed to be streaming in at the same time. Most wore standard-issue conference lanyards to identify themselves. Those without, like Matt and me, were obviously just attending the luncheon. Behind the lectern at the front, a Russian flag stood alongside the Union Jack. We arrived early and snagged two seats at a table at the front and just to the right of the lectern. Maybe this was provocative on our part, but we wanted to leave nothing to chance. We wanted to see him up close, and more importantly, we wanted him to see us so we could easily gauge his reaction.

  We reserved our seats by tipping our two chairs up to lean them forward against the table. This seemed to be the standard method others in the room had adopted. We then retreated to a crowded back corner of the room in an attempt to keep a low profile. Eventually the room settled and everyone took their seats. We waited until a well-dressed man approached the front and stepped up on the riser. Lunch would be served after the speech so that Alexei Bugayev, our father, would not have to contend with the clatter of cutlery during his remarks.

  “Wait. Not yet,” Matt said, touching my elbow as we held our ground at the back.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the man at the lectern said. “Welcome to the fourteenth annual conference of the Confederation of British Industry. I’m your luncheon host, David Ward, managing director of the CBI. Beyond the informative sessions you’ve already attended this morning and those you will attend this afternoon and over the course of the next two days, I’m very pleased that we’ve managed to secure interesting and diverse luncheon speakers as well. Today, speaking on the important topic ‘Trends in Russian–U.K. trade,’ we were to be hearing from the Russian ambassador himself. Regrettably, his return to London from Moscow has been unavoidably delayed. But, in his stead, we are fortunate to have with us the senior economist at the Russian Embassy, Mr. Alexei Bugayev. He is a long-serving diplomat who has previously held economic positions in Washington, Ottawa, Geneva, and Paris, before being posted to London five years ago. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming Mr. Alexei Bugayev.”

  “Now,” Matt whispered.

  We picked our way through the tables as quickly as we could and arrived at our seats just as our father arrived at the podium from the other side of the room. He placed a file folder of speaking notes on the lectern and looked out at the crowd. He was smiling. Then the movement down to his left as Matt and I belatedly took our seats seemed to catch his eye. He turned his head only slightly and looked directly at us. Then he flinched, as if he were being electrocuted. I don’t mean by lightning or the electric chair, but perhaps by a half-dead car battery. It may not have been obvious to the rest of the audience, but the impact of our proximal presence was certainly clear to Matt and me. His reaction unequivocally solved yesterday’s mystery of whether he actually knew who we were. But how he could have recognized us so readily after such a long separation was just one of a raft of new questions.

  “He knows us!” Matt whispered.

  Either that, or he recoiled because we’re shockingly ugly, repulsive, and grotesque.

  “I know,” I whispered back.

  I thought he was quite a handsome man who had aged well. I noted with some satisfaction that he still had a full and flowing head of longish hair that was neatly parted and styled. As if out of respect for his host country, he wore a subtle tweed suit, complete with vest, white shirt, and a quiet patterned tie. The facial similarities both Matt and I perceived in the old hockey card photo were still discernible at his current age of sixty-four. The KGB notwithstanding, to me, he looked gentle and kind.

  Alexei Bugayev quickly recovered his composure. As is standard luncheon speech protocol, most in the crowd had been clapping and had not even noticed him falter in the instant. He studiously avoided further eye contact with the front table to his left, keeping his eyes trained on the middle of the room well behind us. Head down, he took a moment to gather himself and arrange his papers, as the audience applause died away. Then he donned rimless glasses, took a deep breath, and lifted his eyes.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your warm welcome. I bring greetings from the ambassador along with his deep regret that he cannot be with you today. I can tell you, he was very much looking forward to this event, but alas, in the world of international diplomacy, ambassadors are not always in control of their time. I, too, regret that he is not here, as it means that I am.”

  He paused to let a chuckle run through the assembled.

  “Not that I am ungrateful for this opportunity, but luncheon speeches are not generally part of my repertoire, and our ambassador is very good at the microphone. So please bear with me and I will do my best.”

  I loved the sound of his voice. His command of English vocabulary and syntax was perfect, with just a slight, almost charming, Slavic lilt. Despite our presence, he spoke with intelligence, humour, confidence, and even something that approached charisma leavened with modesty. He seemed to be addressing the middle and back of the room. He never once let his eyes linger on any of the front tables, let alone ours.

  A very odd sensation descended on me. Later, Matt admitted to feeling the same thing. We both knew, without reservation, that we were in the presence of our father. It wasn’t rooted in logic and reason, but was something far more visceral, primal, and personal. I felt calm and – I don’t know how else to put it – complete. It was strange, new, and comforting at the same time.

  I really didn’t listen to what he said, but to how he said it. I wasn’t focused on content but on his presence, his tone, style, and mannerisms, the way he moved his hands, the way he held his head, even the way he turned the pages of his notes, and held the edge of the lectern. I studied him, utterly secure in who he was to me.

  He spoke for about thirty minutes, though even without really taking in exactly what he was saying, it passed quickly for me. Then all too soon, it was winding down.

  “I realize that I am the single obstacle remaining to serving what I know will be a lovely lunch here at the famed Savoy. On behalf of the ambassador, I reiterate my gratitude for this opportunity to be with you to discuss the very bright future of trade between our two nations. I regret that I cannot stay for lunch. I am rushing off now to another important engagement but wish you well and hope that our paths will cross again. Thank you.”<
br />
  The audience applauded enthusiastically as our father snatched his folder of speaking notes, stepped quickly off the risers, and very nearly trotted to the nearest exit. It was the door to the kitchen, but he strode through it as if he knew exactly where he was going. A few seconds later, two other well-dressed men, clearly caught off guard by our father’s unorthodox and hasty escape, headed through the door, too.

  “Come on,” Matt said, leaping to his feet and rushing towards the same kitchen door.

  I was one step behind. A few people behind me expressed mild consternation that we were plowing through the crowd quite so aggressively.

  “Sorry,” I heard Matt say to no one in particular. “Pardon me.”

  I said nothing but kept moving.

  The kitchen staff weren’t quite prepared for yet two more luncheon guests to come barrelling through their work space, but one of them kindly pointed a wooden spoon down a small aisle to the left. I assumed it was sign language for “they went that way.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said as he hustled down the corridor.

  I followed just behind. The aisle took a ninety-degree turn to the right. When we came around the corner, we just caught a glimpse of our father ducking out an emergency exit. Behind him, his two colleagues, who now looked less like luncheon guests and more like Mafia muscle, stood and faced us, blocking the exit.

  “Back this way,” I said to Matt. “We passed another door.” “Right.”

  We dashed back the other way but were in the grips of the two men before we could even get near the other fire door.

  It was obvious from their strength and the skilled way they immobilized us while still propelling us, that we were in no position to escape or overpower them. They guided us right back out into the still crowded luncheon ballroom. I almost tripped a server carrying a large oval tray precariously bearing ten plates of chicken. She managed to stay upright, though her tray did not. Despite the cushy carpet, it made a very impressive noise when it hit the floor. Our assailants were smiling and nodding to people as they “escorted” us through the room and out into the lobby of the Savoy. I wish there was more we could have done but we were completely helpless in their hands. In hindsight, we could have screamed or shouted, but neither Matt nor I wanted to draw any more attention to ourselves than we already had.

  We wound up out on the sidewalk, still held by Russian embassy “officials.”

  “Do not bother Mr. Bugayev, again,” one said. “Is this clear?”

  “But…um…we know him. He knows us,” Matt said. “We just want to talk to him.”

  “He does not want to talk to you. Do not try to contact him again. That is a last warning. Mr. Bugayev has no wish to see you yesterday at the embassy, today, or tomorrow. He is very busy and has no time for this. If you persist even more, we will speak to the authorities.”

  I wasn’t sure who these “authorities” were, but I wasn’t about to ask him.

  They then waved down a taxi that pulled up beside us. They shoved us into the cab, slammed the door, and banged on the roof. The driver seemed to know what that meant and eased back into traffic.

  “Where to, gents?”

  “I suppose we’re headed to Wild’s Rents and Decima, near the Tower Bridge, please,” Matt said.

  —

  “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to think,” Matt said as we reclined on his couch, quite tuckered out from our little luncheon encounter with our father.

  “He knows who we are. That much is certain,” I replied. “I can’t imagine not wanting to see my own twin sons after being apart for twenty-five years. His reaction makes no sense.”

  “I don’t think we’re in possession of the full story. I mean, how did he recognize us? His reaction to seeing us strongly suggests he’s seen us before, maybe more than once. Something else is going on here.”

  “Maybe, but he’s certainly made it clear he doesn’t want anything to do with us. And that little kick in the gut feels just awesome, really quite lovely.”

  “Hang on,” said Matt. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions, just yet, though I know it looks a little bleak right now. I think we really do have to get him alone, somehow.”

  “Well, we could stake out the Russian Embassy and then tail him to his home,” I suggested. “You know, try to reach him when he’s not officially on Russian territory flanked by burly Bratislav and muscle-head Mikhail.”

  “It might be a little difficult to shadow him without being discovered given that we have no idea what we’re doing and he seems quite able to recognize us,” Matt said.

  “Ah, but I’m an actor, remember? If I take the time to prepare, I think I could walk right up to him and he wouldn’t know I’m his own flesh and blood. That’s what actors do.”

  “I dare say,” Matt conceded. “I just didn’t think we’d have to wear a false nose and glasses to get close to our own father.”

  —

  We ordered in Chinese food. By the time it arrived, it was after 8:00 p.m. We were both starving as our premature exit from the Savoy meant we’d missed our lunch. We ate pretty much in silence sitting at either end of the couch. I felt a little better after gorging on sweet and sour chicken, but we were both still depressed. Dramatic emotional swings take their toll. There was the ride up to euphoria when we beat the odds and found our father, thanks to a twenty-five-year-old photo of a partial tattoo. Then the unexpected plummet to despair when he rejected us, twice.

  I took half an hour after dinner to craft an email update to Wendy Weaver. Then I texted a slightly more detailed version of the day’s developments to Abby. In true Abby fashion, she replied expressing her deep sympathies for Matt and me, and then calling our father an asshole.

  “Listen, whenever I’m depressed, I watch Chariots of Fire, my favourite film of all time,” Matt said, grabbing the DVD from the bookcase.

  “No shit!” I replied. “I love that film.”

  “Of course you do,” Matt said. “You would.”

  “I’m serious. Ben Cross is amazing in it. Such brooding intensity.”

  “Would you like to see it now?” Matt asked.

  “Well, it’s a little late to start it, but what the hell?”

  “It’s never too late for Chariots.”

  He grabbed two beers from the fridge, joined me back on the couch, and hit Play.

  It really was a great movie. Matt and I took turns reciting lines we’d both committed to memory. Matt took on the Eric Liddell role, while I handled Harold Abrahams. Eventually, it seemed we both nodded off. It was after midnight when I woke up. The DVD was playing some of the bonus features, and Matt was sound asleep at the far end of the couch. Something had wakened me, but I didn’t know what. Then I heard it again, a very soft knock on the front door. I nudged Matt.

  “What?” Matt said, as he sat up. He looked at the TV. “What did I miss?”

  “What you just missed was a knock on the door.”

  Just then a third, slightly louder knock sounded. With a quizzical look on his face, Matt hoisted himself from the couch and headed to the front hall. I was not far behind. He swung open the door. There, alone, stood Alexei Bugayev.

  PART FOUR

  Above me, there was silence. They were gone.

  CHAPTER 12

  Alexei snatched a final glance down the corridor behind him, stepped inside quickly, and closed the door. He stood there facing us, his hands trembling, his eyes glistening.

  “My boys. My sons,” he said. “I’m so sorry for all of this, for everything.”

  He turned to Matt and embraced him.

  “Matthew.”

  Matt seemed in shock, but eventually reciprocated. They rocked a little bit. I heard our father sniffle once before he let go of Matt and turned to me.

  “Alexei,” he whispered, as he locked me in a bear hug. I was ready and hugged back.

  “I prayed this moment might come someday, somehow,” he said. “But I couldn’t see what could possibly br
ing about this moment. But you figured it out. You somehow cracked the code.”

  We let go of one another and stepped back. Our father was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved dark blue patterned shirt, untucked.

  We just stood there, three points of a triangle, looking at each other.

  My customary reticence vanished in the moment. I don’t know why, or maybe I do. But it was gone. I hadn’t uttered a single word to the man standing before me yet I felt completely “inside-out” with him.

  “So it’s true,” I said. “It’s all true. We did figure it out. You really are our father.”

  He smiled through tears and nodded.

  “How did you do it? How did you find me?” he asked.

  I don’t know how Matt and I choreographed what happened next. We exchanged no signals, no knowing glances. We each just played our part on instinct. At the same moment, we both raised our right arms, extended our index fingers, and pointed to his left forearm, perfectly synchronized. Our father looked puzzled until Matt then grasped our father’s left wrist and turned it to reveal the tattoo. We’d only ever seen part of it. But now we examined the entire tattoo.

  He still looked puzzled. I walked over to the kitchen table, pulled the one and a half photos from the envelope, and returned to the rest of my family. (I like how that sounds.) I handed the whole photo to our father and pointed to the obscured tattoo, while Matt fished his half photo from his wallet to line up with my half. Alexei Bugayev was shaking his head, his eyes moving from the complete photo in his hand to the bisected photo in mine. He handed the photograph to Matt and then reached for his own wallet. I knew what was coming. So did Matt. We looked at each other and smiled.

  Our father opened his wallet and reached into a slot in almost precisely the same way I’d watched Matt do the same thing a week earlier. He withdrew a photo folded in half. We knew. We were both still smiling and nodding. Father opened the photo and held it next to the other photos Matt and I held. We took the photos over to the coffee table and laid them edge to edge, finally reunited after nearly a quarter of a century. I couldn’t help myself. I reached over and flipped our father’s photo, as certain about what I’d find as I was about anything. And there it was.