The Opium Prince Page 16

  As the chauffeur poked along through the densely packed evening roads, spinning the radio dial, Telaya began to whisper, quoting lyrics from the record, running down its titles, changing the words a little here and there.

  Just for him, she said.

  Peter made one joke after another. “A Soviet soldier was just sentenced to thirty-one years in prison for shouting in public, ‘The premier is an idiot!’ He got one year for insulting the premier and thirty for revealing a state secret.” The women broke into laughter until the driver laughed, too, and Daniel forced himself to laugh until his laughter was no longer fake, forgetting for a moment the real reason he was going to the club.

  “You’re silly,” Laila told Peter. He kissed her on the lips. From her reaction, it wasn’t the first time.

  They were almost at the club. The ladies drew combs and lipsticks from their handbags, and Peter put on the shoes he had taken off. As the merriment was replaced by a silence full of cheerful anticipation, Telaya went on with her ghostly songs. Daniel caught only snippets.

  She eventually stopped singing, but as they drew to the nightclub, she said, The man without arms can’t help having no arms. You chose to be blind and deaf.

  The car slowly came to a stop. The Zoroaster was on the fringes of downtown, this side’s Studio 54 for denizens of the night. Armored tanks were visible on the road perpendicular to the alley, but none of the clubgoers seemed to mind. The military often roamed the city since the coup four years ago, and the recent protests and army presence struck many as nothing more than a few extra snails in a garden. Ironically, the nightclub was a force for unity, because all quarreling factions agreed it should be closed. To the Communists, the place was an emblem of Western decadence with its thumping music, alcohol, and half-naked dancers. To Islamists, the place was an emblem of Western decadence with its thumping music, alcohol, and half-naked dancers.

  The chauffeur let Daniel’s group off at the mouth of the alley. Greenwood was leaning against the wall near the entrance, which consisted of unmarked lead doors guarded by a man with a gun and an attitude. The consultant hurried toward Daniel but kept his eyes on the tanks until the bouncer beckoned the group through the door.

  Plain and utilitarian, the facade of the building belied the Zoroaster’s interior. Sequined cushions adorned low-slung sofas. Glittery scarves were hung in swooping patterns along a wall. Waiters with slick ponytails balanced bottles of Veuve Clicquot and Black Label on trays. Four men sat cross-legged on long pillows against a wall, testing their instruments, amplifiers magnifying the booming bass of tabla drums and the electronic strains of a keyboard. Daniel led his group toward the high tables that ringed the dance floor, the strobe lights reflected in their mirrored surfaces.

  “This place is amazing,” Greenwood said. “Check out those chicks.” He pointed unsubtly to several girls in skintight dresses and heeled boots. They stood in a close circle, glancing at men over their shoulders, sharing opinions between sips of wine.

  After seating the women, Daniel and Peter ordered cocktails at the bar, where a bottle blonde offered cigarettes and the bartender mixed cocktails with flamboyant skill. It was past ten o’clock. Walking back toward the table with overflowing glasses, Daniel searched for Taj in the sea of strobe-lit faces.

  “Watch it,” said a man, tripping out of Daniel’s way.

  Greenwood thanked him for the Coke and slapped him on the back. “You know it’s not gonna work, right? My company can’t go along with it.”

  “Let’s not talk about it now.”

  “The Yassaman land is good soil, at least for these parts. We’re excited about it. You will be, too. You’ll see.”

  Maybe he meant it, or maybe he just wanted to make Daniel feel helpless. Either way, he reminded Daniel of the inexorable victory of forces he might never be able to control.

  Daniel scanned the room. Still no sign of Taj. In the club, the crowd swayed in anticipation, bass pulsing against the walls. Just as the emcee announced the dervishes, the opium khan came into view in the entryway.

  “Hey, there’s your friend,” Greenwood said.

  Rebecca jerked anxious eyes toward Taj but lowered them before he could acknowledge her. Peter and Laila were too fascinated with each other to notice. Beckoning a waiter, Daniel asked for a bottle of whiskey, wishing Ian were here. But Ian loathed the Zoroaster, which he described as “kind of tawdry but not really, and basically a place that makes no sense.”

  Amid a riot of applause, three dervishes took their places on the floor: one in his early teens, one Daniel’s age, and one an old man, all wearing cropped white jackets and matching skirts that grazed the floor.

  It was a scandal for a traditional religious dance to be performed in a discotheque. From the bass drum rose a sluggish rhythm, a deep and echoing beat followed by two shorter ones. The dervishes began to twirl, heads tilted, arms hugging their shoulders.

  Taj never cut his gaze from Daniel, standing on the steps near the coat and chaderi check. Rebecca pretended to be mesmerized by the show. Greenwood had drifted to some other world, staring at other patrons, including a group of young men accompanied by older gentlemen in gold chains and thick rings. Daniel used the break in conversation to think through his next move. He wouldn’t easily be able to reach Taj, who was past the giant wall the crowd had formed.

  The music grew louder and faster, and other instruments joined in. People hooted to the beat. Heads bobbed and bodies swayed. The teenage dervish whirled vertiginously, faster than the others, his long hair like black water under the searching lights. Greenwood looked uncomfortable. He leaned toward Daniel and laughed. “They do like spinning tops, don’t they?”

  From across the room, Taj briefly flashed a yellow envelope. He threaded through the crowd, slipping toward the restrooms. Daniel waited a moment, then followed. The men’s room was empty save for Taj and a man whose bladder could apparently hold several pints. Taj stood before the mirror, combing his hair, leaning against the sink with his other hand. His body swayed slightly. With a silent flick of his gaze, he indicated an empty stall. Daniel went inside and shut the door. The yellow envelope was wedged behind the toilet tank. He opened it and was soon holding the edges of a single Polaroid. The glossy paper felt both sticky and slick.

  The clamor of the crowd and the music thumped at the bathroom door. Daniel turned the photo over, unable to look at it any longer. He considered bringing it to the office to shred it; returning it anonymously to its subject, who would certainly destroy it; or tossing it in his fireplace at home. He leafed through his options like pages of a book, already knowing what passage he was looking for. There was only one fate for this devastating photo.

  He slipped the Polaroid back into the envelope and exited the stall. The bathroom’s third occupant was finally gone, while Taj remained, leaning patiently against the wall.

  “How did you get this?” Daniel asked.

  “Surely you knew such places existed. And thus, they must be serving a clientele.” Daniel heard his street-child accent break through his veneer. The smell of wine bloomed on the Manticore’s breath.

  “I thought you didn’t drink,” Daniel said.

  “I didn’t,” Taj said, as if just realizing himself that this was true.

  “Why did you start?” Daniel wasn’t sure why he’d asked, but he sensed an opportunity to humble the khan.

  Taj only shrugged. “Why did you?”

  “It’s just something people do.”

  “If a man must have a vice, he should at least know how it serves him.”

  Vice. Rarely had Daniel seen vice on display like in that photograph. Vice or maybe even disease—whatever it was, its entire incarnation was captured on that Polaroid. He knew what he had to do, but if he stayed here, he could delay the task by a few more minutes. “How does drinking serve you, exactly?” he asked.

  “It’s a m
atter of life or death.”

  “Nobody ever died from not drinking.”

  “As usual, you misunderstand me. I’m trying to save my own life by causing the death of another.”

  “You think that talking in riddles makes you sound deep? Anyone from here can tell you’re a fraud, saheb.” He invested all the irony he could into the word.

  “Another thing we have in common.” Taj bowed. “Good night, my friend.” Before he slipped out of the restroom, he added, “And you’re welcome.”

  Daniel was left alone, clutching the envelope almost tight enough to crumple it. The picture was etched into his mind like the poppies were on Taj’s gun. It laid claim to all his senses. He could almost hear the music coming from the radio on the particleboard table in the photo, smell the stale cigarettes piled in the ashtray. He could hear the din of traffic, the cars and bikes visible through the frosted window, which was dirty and cracked.

  Two men pushed into the restroom, apologizing when they hit him with the door. He made his way back to the table, where Greenwood and Rebecca were talking and Peter was feeding peanuts to Laila.

  “Do you have a moment to chat?” Daniel asked Greenwood.

  “You want to talk shop?”

  “Something like that.”

  Rebecca protested. “Can’t you take a break?”

  Daniel reminded her that tonight was about business. She nodded. Sometimes she was so lovely it took his breath away, and he vowed never again to forget, never to risk losing her to Peter or anyone else. He walked with Greenwood up a staircase to the second floor, where there was a restaurant that operated only during the day.

  “Where are we going?” the consultant said as they crossed the darkened dining room.

  “Outside.”

  The balcony door was closed but not locked. A gust of wind slammed into Daniel’s chest as he stepped over the threshold. The alley below was empty except for a looming tank, which groaned nervously at the corner while a smattering of people argued amongst themselves.

  “I told you,” Greenwood said after glancing nervously at the alley. “It’s a done deal. Yassaman is a go.”

  Daniel looked up at the sky. “Have you ever noticed that the moon looks like a lens?”

  “A lens?”

  “You know, a camera lens.”

  “Whatever you say,” Greenwood replied. “Look, if you keep pushing this thing with the fields, I’ll have to take steps.”

  “Steps? How concerning.”

  “I don’t bluff. Learned not to a long time ago. My dad was a gambler.”

  “Mine wasn’t. Tell your superiors at Dannaco-Hastings that the plan has changed, and that you’re behind me on this. If you need to, you’ll tell them that you’ve personally seen soil samples and talked to engineers. Even that you’ve talked to my source.”

  Greenwood searched Daniel’s face. “What kind of game is this? Daniel, you don’t write the rulebook here. You’ve got your orders, and if you don’t carry them out, the State Department will replace you with someone who will.” In his chiding was a note of genuine concern.

  “You have to support the switch to the Gulzar field,” Daniel said. “Or I have to do something I really don’t want to.”

  “What, push me over the balcony? Is that your grand plan?”

  “No.” Daniel produced the photograph and averted his eyes as Greenwood looked at it. For a moment, he wished the breeze would sweep it away, and take with it the shame and pain. When Daniel looked at Greenwood again, the man had taken a step back, his face inscrutable.

  “I thought this would be paperwork about the Gulzar field,” he said. His companion in the picture was younger than the youngest dervish, years younger than the murdered teenager in the Yassaman field. The boy’s chest was hairless, his ribs obvious, his arms long and disproportionate to his torso.

  “I know what you must be thinking, but this isn’t what it looks like.”

  “I didn’t ask for an explanation.”

  “It’s a fake. No one’s going to believe this.”

  “And that’s a chance you’re willing to take?”

  Greenwood let his shoulders sink. His next words were a sorrowful plea. “Why would you do this? Is it so important to destroy the Gulzar field instead of the Yassaman field?”

  “Is it so important to destroy the Yassaman field instead of the Gulzar field?”

  “If I tell my boss your data’s good, that we need to change the plan, this goes away?” The young man’s lips quivered as Daniel nodded.

  Greenwood wrapped his fingers around the railing and lowered his gaze to the alley, and for a moment Daniel feared he would jump. A soldier glanced up. Daniel walked closer to the ledge, calculating how fast he could stop Greenwood if that was his intention. But the consultant retreated, studying the sky. Searching for the god who had done this to him.

  As Daniel turned to leave, Greenwood said, “I was on the top floor of one of the Twin Towers once when I was a kid.” He stared up at the moon. “Have you noticed that no matter how high you climb, the sky never seems to get any closer?”

  “And yet it can fall at any time.”

  Greenwood turned to him. “Exactly.”

  For a fleeting moment, Daniel felt a camaraderie with the man. He left Greenwood on the terrace and returned to the club, the photo wedged in his jacket pocket. The club was rowdier than ever. Rebecca was ready to leave. Everyone agreed it was time. When their group reached the lead doors, the bouncer jangled into sight with a set of keys.

  The entrance hadn’t been locked earlier. Guarded, but not locked. The bouncer opened the door just enough for them to slip through, warning them to be careful. Outside, they were quickly caught in the crush. A tank was crawling up the alley like a panther, slow but relentless. Its barrel was aimed at the crowd. Standing in the hatch, a captain shouted into a megaphone.

  “Disperse!” he bellowed.

  A dozen people were waving flags—some red, some green. These represented not countries but ideas. Daoud had become a traitor and a joke, the Communists shouted, raising banners that read kalq, the more radical of the two main factions. They demanded a revolution and called the Soviets their brothers in arms. Not to be outdone, the religious opposition waved their green flags and called for jihad against the Communist infidels.

  Jihad. Daniel had never heard the word used like this before. It usually referred to an inner struggle. You waged jihad against yourself, against personal temptations and petty emotions. Not against other people.

  Rioters threw stones and pumped fists as uniforms gave orders and people screamed. A man climbed onto the tank and seized the megaphone. Emblazoned on his red shirt was a gold star. “The land belongs to the people,” said the man as the captain aimed a gun at him, “not the capitalists who want to take it!” He waved a finger in the air. “Down with Daoud! Down with America! They hire Kochis, those stateless savages, and leave us with nothing!” Cheers and boos rose in the air, tangling like smoke. The captain struck the man with the butt of his gun, shoving him off the tank and wrangling the megaphone back. Curses flew, but it wasn’t clear if the men were cursing each other, the soldiers, the Zoroaster, or some other thing entirely. In the club, the show went on, hypnotized partygoers unaware of the chaos outside. Daniel led Rebecca and his friends along the wall to where the car waited, engine already running.

  No one spoke on the drive home. Daniel could feel the photo against his chest. Possessing this image felt wrong, like holding the bloodied limb of your fallen enemy. Or maybe it reminded him of his car, which he still had not returned to. Like driving, photography was a modern, useful act, a way to discover places and make memories, but it could become a weapon, destroying a life in the blink of an eye.

  16

  At home, Firooz was waiting at the door. Rebecca’s father had called twice, he said. She sped toward the study
. Daniel’s ears were ringing from the nightclub, the crowd, and the echo of the photo, and he was glad Peter and Laila hadn’t come home with them. They’d gone back to his hotel room or her apartment; Daniel scarcely cared. He waited in the living room, wondering why Walter had called twice in one night. When Rebecca was finished, she went to the garden instead of joining him in the living room. He thought he should leave her alone. When she returned, her clothes and hands were covered with soil.

  He got up. “What’s wrong?”

  Rebecca held her breath. “My sister is dead.” Her voice broke. “Sandy’s dead.”

  Daniel rushed toward her and wrapped her in his arms. She fell into him with a guttural sound, a single declaration of pain. He led her to the sofa, where she held on to him tightly.

  “She took too much. She fell asleep on her back. She threw up, and . . .” Rebecca covered her mouth.

  Daniel rocked her in his arms as the story poured forth. Sandy had died in an apartment in a northern swath of the San Fernando Valley, where all the buildings looked alike, the only variation the color and message of the graffiti. It was one of those places nobody knew, but everybody knew of. Her mother was in the hospital, recovering from shock, sedated with something that ended in -bital. The funeral would take place in five days. Rebecca was shivering as she told the story. “Let’s get you warmed up,” he said softly.

  He helped Rebecca upstairs. It seemed each time they’d climbed these steps since the accident, they were fleeing something. Usually each other, but not tonight. He drew her a bath and sat on the floor of the bathroom beside the tub. She said she didn’t want to talk. Daniel held her hand in the bathwater until it was cold and thought about Sandy. Her death was a shock, but not a surprise. By the time he had met Rebecca, Sandy was already a painful subject. She’d been a flower child, belonging not to daisies and marigolds but to flowers that killed. The same flowers that filled Daniel’s days. The most striking thing about Sandy, besides a beauty that had faded by twenty-five, had been her voice, an incongruous blend of apathy and overwrought emotion unique to addicts. Always looking for a cause, she had wanted to stand for everything, and so she’d fallen for anything put before her. Dubious groups solicited funds for nondescript causes, and she fell for their scams. Young men plotted revolutions and wrote novellas, and she fell for them, too. Sandy kept on falling until she’d crashed through the floorboards of her life and ended up squatting with her ill-weather friends in gray-block buildings and abandoned shops. She had died like the Stupid Man who used to loiter in front of Daniel’s house when he was a boy. Despite her privilege and her wealth, she’d been just like him, the old wretch who would stare at Daniel’s fancy house and shake his fist at its walls as he dragged his feet over the dust.