He strode up to the apartment block and tapped in the code on the door. He ran up the three flights of steps, taking them two at a time. He needed to keep in shape. Sitting in a shop day in day out was beginning to take its toll on his physique. He missed the physical drills of the army. It had been tough, but he’d revelled in the chance to push his endurance to the limits and see his body getting stronger and leaner each day. These days it was up to him to try to work some exercise into his daily routine.
He reached Bela’s apartment and rang the doorbell.
“Azamat! This is a welcome surprise.” Bela stood there in a pale green summer dress, her long black hair tied up in a loose bun behind her head.
Azamat grinned and showed her his empty hands. “Sorry, little sis, no gift. This was a bit of a spur of the moment decision. Just wanted to check how you were all doing.”
“Of course, come in. Michael will be home in half an hour.”
“Actually, that would be great. I’m supposed to be meeting Papa in town this evening, but you know he always works later than he says. I’m expecting a text any minute telling me he’s running late again.”
Bela laughed. “Yep, sounds like Papa.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
Azamat carefully removed his shoes and walked into the living room. Sure enough, Angelina was in there watching television. She turned when she saw him and gave him a big grin.
“Uncle Azamat!”
“Hey, there, pumpkin.” Azamat tousled her head affectionately. Angelina was a sweet girl. She reminded him so much of her mother, Zalina, who had grown up next door to them in the village and who had been in Azamat’s year at school.
Bela appeared with a glass of water. “Here you go. It’s so hot again today!”
“Thanks. Yeah, I’ve already spoken to Cody about installing proper air conditioning in the shop. It’s like an oven in there. I’m sure it’s not good for business.”
“I’ll put a good word in for you tomorrow,” Bela said. As Cody’s personal assistant, she had quite a bit of sway when it came to practical arrangements.
Azamat settled himself into one of the sofa chairs, half an eye on the television show that Angelina was watching. “He’s treating you well, this English husband of yours?” he asked Bela.
Bela laughed. “Yes, of course, he’s a wonderful husband.”
“Just had to ask. Big brotherly concern and all that.”
“What about you, how are things?” Bela perched on the arm of the sofa chair just across from him.
“Great. Busy. Cody and I are just putting finishing touches to the plans for the bike race at the end of August. That should attract a few more experienced cyclists, and who knows, it might just become an annual thing.”
“I know, he talks about nothing else at the moment. Looks like several well-known names in the cycling world have signed up already. How are things at home?”
“Oh, you know, the same. Mama’s still busy around the house, always fussing. Papa’s still working long hours.”
“Uncle Artur?” Bela had always had a soft spot for their wayward Uncle, who’d become a serious alcoholic over the years, after first losing his wife and son and then losing his job in the economic crisis in the early nineties.
“The same.”
“And you, Azamat?” Bela lowered her voice. “Have you had any news of ...” She glanced across at Angelina and then mouthed the words “your son?”
Azamat felt a pang in his chest. A few years ago, he’d told Bela the whole story of how he’d got his girlfriend pregnant when he was eighteen, and how she’d kept the baby but got married to someone else and forbidden him to have any contact. He gave a deep sigh and hung his head. Perhaps he shouldn’t have told anyone. Just kept the secret to himself. But then it had felt so good to share his pain with someone else. He trusted Bela not to tell anyone, but it felt uncomfortable when she pressed him for information. He glanced over at Angelina, who genuinely seemed to be totally engrossed in her cartoon. He looked back at Bela and kept his voice low.
“No. I keep trying to build up courage to go to the village where they live and try to catch a glimpse, but I just can’t seem to do it.”
Bela reached over and gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze. “Maybe the time’s not right, yet. Maybe one day.”
“Yes, maybe one day.”
Azamat turned his eyes back to the television, but he couldn’t focus. His son. Why could he still not let it go, even after all these years? Why did it still hurt to think about it?
There was a fumbling sound of a key in the lock and the creak of the front door opening. Bela jumped up from the arm rest where she’d been perching, a big smile on her face. Michael was home.
“We’re in here. Azamat’s come for a visit.” She switched from speaking Circassian, their native tongue, to speaking Russian. Michael’s Circassian was still a little shaky, but his Russian was excellent. Azamat also switched easily to Russian.
“Hey, Michael. How are things?” He gave Michael a handshake and a friendly slap on the back.
“Great, thanks. It’s good to see you, Azamat. How are things with you?”
“Also great. Just checking up on my little sister here.”
The two men moved through to the kitchen, where Bela presented them both with a plate of fried chicken, macaroni and a bowl of cucumber and tomato salad mixed with smetana and dill. Azamat was about to start eating, when he remembered that Michael and Bela liked to pray before they ate. He stopped himself just in time and bowed his head with the others.
“Thank you, Lord, for all your good gifts to us. Thank you for this food and for bringing our guest Azamat to us today. We ask your blessing on him and on our conversation together. Amen.”
“Amen,” mumbled Azamat. It was getting less uncomfortable listening to his sister and her husband praying like that, but it did still seem a little weird. He put a forkful of macaroni in his mouth. Bela went to call Angelina in for dinner now that the men were served.
“Your job at the bike shop is going well?” Michael asked
“Yes, I love it. I actually look forward to going to work every day. I know there’s not a lot of people who can say that about their jobs,” Azamat replied.
Michael looked thoughtfully at him. “You know, it’s so great to see you smiling and happy. You’ve changed so much in the last couple of years.”
Azamat laughed. “Yes, I’m a changed man. I have a steady job and great plans for my business. Things couldn’t be better.”
“On the outside everything looks great. I’m proud of you,” said Michael. “But is everything truly changed on the inside?”
Azamat furrowed his brows. How much did Michael know about his past? They’d talked before about Azamat’s involvement in the terrorist group, but had Bela told him more?
“I, er. I still have some things I’m dealing with, I guess.” He tried to laugh it off, but Michael wasn’t fooled.
“Don’t leave it too late to forgive yourself for your past mistakes, Azamat. Forgive and let go.”
Azamat opened his mouth but then shut it again. What did Michael mean? What did forgiveness have to do with anything?
At that moment Angelina scampered in, with Bela not far behind. He’d have to continue his talk with Michael another time.
It was late when he finally left Bela and Michael’s apartment. The rest of the evening had been full of light banter, nothing serious. But as Azamat headed out onto the street, he just couldn’t get his head straight. He was nervous, that’s what it was. He’d asked Papa to meet up with him after work tonight to talk through a business proposition. He and Cody had been fleshing out the details of the upcoming summer bike race, but it needed approval from the local government, and Azamat was hoping that Papa might be able to put in a good word for them with his colleagues. He was well-prepared. He had a print-out of projected income for local businesses as a result of the extra tourism that the race would generate, as well as a detailed plan of the
suggested route, necessary road closures and the number of people they would need to hire as marshals at the various intersections. There was even a list of potential sponsors for the event, who were hoping to gain back what they were putting in through advertising along the race route. It was a solid proposition. So why was his heart pounding more quickly than usual, and why were his hands so sweaty? Was it because of what Michael had said, or was it something else?
He glanced at the clock. Papa had texted as expected, and they’d arranged to meet just after ten o’clock. It was already dark outside. It had been his idea to meet Papa in town, in a neutral place, rather than at home. He’d wanted to make this a serious meeting, one businessman to another. At home he always felt like he was sixteen again and that his father disapproved of everything he did. As the only son, it was his duty to stay at the family home to look after his parents, but until he was married himself, he’d always be treated like a schoolboy. Although he didn’t mind it when Mama spoiled him. He’d always be her little boy. Her only son. She’d been so worried when he’d dropped out of contact for a year or two after the army, and he’d promised her that he’d never do that again.
However, if he had gone home first rather than lingering at Bela and Michael’s, then maybe his head would be clearer. Certain conversations at their place had forced his mind to start dwelling on the past once more. Images flitted in and out from his memory as he walked along, most of them unbidden and unwanted. Images of his time in training with the terrorist organisation up near Moscow. Television images of the aftermath of the Beslan tragedy, that haunted him still, every night, nearly six years later. He could have been there. He could have been one of the ones responsible. Sometimes in his dreams he saw himself as a parent, standing outside the school, helpless, knowing his own son was in there. He would wake up, drenched in sweat, crying out his son’s name. But his son hadn’t been there, thank God. Zalina’s son, had, though. She, her son and her husband. What if he’d been directly responsible for their deaths? He’d grown up next door to Zalina. They’d been the same age.
Azamat shuddered and picked up the pace a little. He thought about his son. In his dreams he could never properly make out his son’s face. He’d never laid eyes on him in real life. He’d be fifteen years old now. Had Milana ever told him the truth? Did he know that the man he thought was his father wasn’t his real father? He’d asked himself so many times if he should try to get in contact, but each time he kept remembering the stern look on Milana’s face. “Please don’t come looking for the baby, will you? Please don’t cause trouble. If you ever loved me, you’ll leave me alone. Okay?”. Was she right? Was it really better that his son never knew the truth? And what about his rights? Did she ever consider his feelings, that he might actually want to see his own son one day?
He and his father weren’t meeting for another fifteen minutes, but something inside him suddenly caused him to tense up. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins. Not the same kind of edgy nervousness he’d been feeling these last few minutes about meeting up with his father. No, this was different. Something in his gut told him that he needed to hurry. He needed to go and meet his father right now. It was as if he was being compelled by an invisible force outside of himself. He clutched his folder of papers tighter to his chest and rounded the corner where the bar was located. Something wasn’t right. He needed to move faster. He broke into a jog. He reached the place where they had agreed to meet, but the invisible force wouldn’t let him stop. He needed to keep going. His heart was beating really fast now. What was going on?
Azamat turned another corner and entered the town park. A soft glow from the lampposts lighted up the path before him. He jogged down towards the middle and then took a right, towards the part of the park nearest to the building where his father worked. The light was dimmer here. Some of the lamps were no longer working. Up ahead, in the distance, he could just make out a figure walking towards him. He slowed down, relieved. It looked like his father, his bulky frame striding purposefully, a briefcase swinging in his hand. But there was someone else, behind him. Someone in the shadows. Whoever it was caught up with his father. Azamat couldn’t see what was happening, but they were talking. Azamat kept walking towards his father, straining to see in the darkness. Something was very wrong. The other man grabbed Papa by the arm and Papa dropped his suitcase.
“Hey!” Azamat shouted. He started sprinting towards his father. The stranger looked up and Azamat caught a brief glimpse of his face. A young man, he couldn’t have been more than about nineteen or twenty. He looked angry. He turned back towards Papa and suddenly a shot rang out. Azamat knew that sound. He hadn’t gone through all that training in the army not to recognise the sound of a Glock 17. He reached his father a second later. His father collapsed to the ground, clutching his stomach. Azamat looked up at the young man who was sprinting off into the darkness of the park beyond. For a split second he thought about chasing him. Anger coursed through his entire body. How dare he shoot his father; he would pay for what he’d done! But he knew if he chased him then he would have to leave his father all alone. With all the strength of mind he could summon up he turned his attention back to his father and let the young man go.
Chapter 4
Bela
Bela, Mama and Madina pushed their way through the crowd of people at the entrance to the hospital. They hastily pulled on the obligatory white hospital coats over their own clothes, and wrapped the blue, plastic shoe covers over their sandals.
“Where is he?” Mama asked, her voice high-pitched and trembling, and her eyes displaying a fear that Bela had rarely seen before.
Madina took her hand. “Don’t worry, Mama, I’m sure everything will be alright. Azamat said he was on the sixth floor.”
Bela exchanged a worried glance with her older sister. Would everything really be alright? It wasn’t every day that your father got shot. She still couldn’t believe it. Azamat had phoned them late last night, but they hadn’t been able to get into the hospital until this morning. Mama was already striding towards the staircase, and Bela and Madina hurried after her, carrying their bags of supplies. They hadn’t known what to bring, hadn’t known what kind of situation their father would be in, so in the end they’d just settled on some blankets and cushions to make the hospital bed more comfortable.
A few minutes later the three women arrived, panting a little, at the top of the staircase on the sixth floor. Azamat was in the long, bare corridor, squatting down against the white-washed wall. He sprang up when he saw them and gave Mama a hug and a kiss. His eyes were bloodshot with dark rings, the result of a long, sleepless night in an uncomfortable position. Chairs for visitors to sit on were few and far between in this hospital.
“They’ve finished operating, Mama. They think he’s going to be okay, but they’re just making sure.”
“Oh, thank God!” Mama swooned and might have fallen to the floor if Bela and Madina hadn’t been right behind her.
“Can we see him?” Bela asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll tell the doctors you’re here.”
After half an hour of anxious waiting, the door opened, and they were finally ushered into her father’s room. Bela hadn’t been prepared for the shock of seeing her proud, determined, authoritative father lying so weak and helpless in a hospital bed. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes closed. Tubes ran out from underneath the bedclothes and attached themselves to various pieces of hospital equipment.
Mama ran to the bed and clutched her husband’s hand in hers.
“Aslan! Aslan, can you hear me?”
Papa turned his head slowly towards her and opened his eyes. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Bela left Mama and Madina to fuss over her father while she went back towards the door to join Azamat, who was in deep conversation with the doctor.
“The next few days are obviously critical, but we’re fairly confident at this point. Miraculously, the bullet didn’t damage any major organs, but he did lose a lot of
blood.”
“What can we do? What does he need?” Bela asked.
The doctor turned to her, his haughty eyes pretending to be concerned and sympathetic. No doubt he knew who his patient was. “We will make sure Aslan Kadirovich has every comfort, and I expect him to be transferred to a private room soon. I will give you a list of medicines you need to buy. He will be too weak to eat anything today, but you might like to bring some soup tomorrow.”
“Yes, yes of course.” Bela turned her eyes back to her father.
The doctor cleared his throat. “There will, of course, be an inquiry. The police will be asking questions.”
Azamat looked stern. “We hope they find the monster that did this as soon as possible and that he gets locked up for life.”
Bela studied her brother. It had been a long time since she’d seen him so strong, so determined, so much in control. It was good but it also unnerved her. He had witnessed the shooting, after all. In their culture that was enough for someone to take the law into their own hands and seek revenge the old-fashioned way. A blood feud between two families that could last generations.
Please God, don’t let that happen.
THREE DAYS LATER PAPA’S condition was much improved, according to the doctors, and he was now able to sit up and eat the soup that Mama spoon-fed him. Mama had spent each night sleeping in a chair in Papa’s hospital room, and Bela had had to force her to go home for a bit to rest.
“Okay, okay, I’ll just go and wash and change into some clean clothes,” Mama had agreed reluctantly. “You’ll be here the whole time?”
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