At Espresso Vivace
‘Now, a Queen, that’s a powerful piece. The most powerful,’ Nogai said, leaning back on the leather sofa, giving Nikolai a poignant look. It was the look that always caused his wide Mongolic features to roll upwards in a cascade of wrinkled forehead, eyes wide and wide lips set even wider. The burned and boiled skin on the right side of his face hadn’t ruined his good looks, though they often joked it had.
Nikolai rolled his eyes sighing, ‘Really? We’re gonna go over this crap again? Don’t you talk about anything else…ever?’ He took a sip of his steaming Americano, spilling some on his cargo trousers; he muttered obscenities to himself as he dabbed at the stain with a napkin.
Meanwhile, Nogai’s fervour welled up like a thunderstorm rolling slowly over the sky to engulf some small village. Nikolai was the small village.
‘Just think about it for a second…as powerful as she is, she’s still only a piece, right?’ And us? Well…,’ he said at length, savouring the delivery, ‘we’re barely even pawns.’ His smooth head gleamed in the soft overhead lamps of the coffee shop that reminded them the most of café Nervosa. Actually, the duo had been driven into an establishment called Espresso Vivace on Broadway East — not three or so minutes’ walk from Capitol Hill, to escape a typical Seattle deluge.
It was the kind of place that had sofas like blackholes and served their coffees in buckets or large bowls that only paid lip service to the idea of cups; by at least having handles. The beverages served here were a world of difference from the small cups of black tea he had drunk back home in the drab cafes of bus stations, with walls painted lime green up to the middle.
Nogai sat forward in his chair suddenly, taking up his mug of hot chocolate with two large hands; hands that belonged to some ancient steppe horse archer or champion wrestler. With his long-braided ponytail draping over one broad shoulder, and shaved head, he really did have the look of some wandering chieftain. Nikolai thought Nogai’s sudden bolting forward was on account of the swaying hips and billowy black hair which had just sailed past their table on platform heels; but Nogai’s mind was fixated, as he regarded the chocolaty whirlpool in his hands with a deep philosophical intent.
‘What would the best way to keep power be? Well, it’d be for nobody to know you even have it. The lower pieces are sure the Bishop, Rook, and Knight are in charge, right? Those guys think the King and Queen are in charge. See where I’m going with this?’
‘Yup. Yup, I’m hearing you,’ Nikolai replied absentmindedly. But he was actually occupied with tracking the sound of heels across islands of dark wooden tables and dark green lamp shades, all on a sea of matching dark wooden floorboards, neck swivelling like a bipedal periscope. Like the one he had peered out from within the metal confines of his units BMP, on the treacherous road through Charikar to Kabul. His mind drifted back to the heat and fear for a moment, he ran a finger along the thick vine of scar tissue that wound its way up from his chest to the lefthand side of his neck.
Nogai wasn’t done, ‘the problem is, pieces, even Queens, can never become players. Nothing is ever as it seems, that’s all I’m trying to say man.’ The fact his friend wasn’t paying much attention began to dawn on him. He followed Nikolai’s gaze across the bustling coffeeshop, and nodded sagely, ‘Ahh I see. Well, I have sad news for you. She’s way out of your league.’
‘Oh really?’ Nikolai was grinning now, deep lines etched into the corners of his green eyes, in the manner of somebody who was accustomed to laugh often, despite the hint of distant sadness.
He stood up and fixed the collar of his denim shirt that he wore over a blue striped telnyashka. He swept back his blonde mullet and was about to set off when Nogai coughed in the universal manner of somebody who wanted to remind you of something uncomfortable.
‘What’?’
Nogai eyed his khaki trousers significantly.
‘Wha…oh, fuck,’ Nikolai had forgotten about the stain placed conveniently on his groin.
‘Aww, did you pee yourself? I’m sure she’ll love that,’ he said laughing. ‘Anyways, when you gonna stop wearing such trousers man?’ Nogai wore blue jeans and a white t-shirt that emphasised his bulky muscles.
Nikolai shook his head in annoyance, muttering something in Russian. Nogai continued chuckling to himself, but there was a hint of sadness. They both remembered that in the open shock of battle, many young men wet themselves.
Before Nikolai could reply, he noticed that the raven-haired lady was approaching their table, as if she were striding down a catwalk, hair tossing about loosely with each footfall. Both men froze. Nikolai ran some calculations: it was a Wednesday afternoon; the place was busy as usual; seats were in short supply — they were lucky enough to have landed a big comfy chair — and a man-eating sofa with space enough in its spongey belly for one more morsel.
Fragments of conversation wafted over the room with cigarette smoke, intermingling with the clinking of spoons on porcelain. Sporadically, the long geezer like hiss of a steamer pierced the cacophony. Smooth jazz washed to the surface when a lull in the ambiance permitted, especially between the scraping of chairs and the parting words of friends.
‘Hi, mind if I if sit here? Kinda busy isn’t it.’ The soft but confidant voice shattered the dull mood that had begun to settle on the two men. They pretended not to hear, out of shyness and surprise more than any intention of being rude. Nikolai administered to the stain on his crotch, hoping perhaps to make it disappear through sheer will power. Nogai stared off into the distance, apparently deep in thought, brow furrowed in his usual way.
‘…Guys? Ya’ know what, it’s fine…I’ll just find….’
‘Of course! Please have a seat, no need to even ask,’ Nikolai rallied himself, smile spreading across his angular face and flattened nose, the price paid for many an army boxing match. He was cannily trying to disguise the stain with the napkin while he spoke.
‘Aww, you peed yourself?’ She grinned, tossing her head to clear a thick strand of black hair that had fallen across an oval face, revealing a full lipped smirk, red lipstick glistening as she swooped onto the sofa, trailing a whiff of perfume in her wake. The sofa let out an audible sigh of air as she sank into the cushions. ‘Just kidding hun, thanks! Heck, these damn cushions,’ as the soft brown leather threatened to gobble up her hips entirely. Nogai couldn’t help but notice these hips, and neither could Nikolai.
So, here they were, in Seattle, in a place that was just like Café Nervosa. It was raining and grey outside, but beautiful somehow, as midday gave way to dusk. Beautiful, providing you weren’t a jaded native of course. They, who couldn’t see the beauty for the rain.
In his dreams, Nikolai always revisited the mountains of Asadabad; heard the deafening roar of the Mi-24’s echoing amongst snowy cliffs; the hazy figures of Dushmen flitting wraith like between the crags and boulders; the wind howling; his hands and feet always numb from the cold. He couldn’t see the beauty of those mountains then. So, he didn’t begrudge the natives of Seattle their dislike of the rain.
‘He always pees himself when he gets over excited,’ Nogai joked nonchalantly.
‘Hey, guys! Come on, leave me be, ok,’ said Nikolai, sitting back in his seat. ‘I’m Nikolai, this is Nogai,’ gesturing to the heavy-set Kazakh on the sofa, who nodded in greeting.
‘I’m Nora. Nice to meet you-guys,’ came the cheerful reply, as she deftly checked a pager attached to the belt of her jeans. She wore a loose shirt of navy blue, crossed with yellowy orange streaks over a turtleneck t-shirt the colour of the cloudy Seattle sky — all tucked into a pair of dark 501s.
‘You’re Russian right Nikolai…and you Nogai…Chinese maybe?’ looking at Nogai.
Nogai looked taken aback, but he held his Kazakh pride in check. He had begun to realise that nobody really knew where Kazakhstan was. Or even that it existed at all. In the USSR, they had been respected- an important country. Nogai often contemplated this; that both men had once shared the same homeland. But some two years prior, on a grainy CRT in a cold barracks, they had watched it disappear whilst downing shots of vodka.
‘I’m from Kazakhstan,’ Nogai said patiently.
‘Ahh, right…Sorry for assuming…I’m normally pretty good at guessing where people are from,’ Nora said self-consciously.
‘Wow, that obvious I’m Russian huh?’ Nikolai said, dispelling the awkward moment.
‘…Your accent…you know…kinda obvious. I think it sounds cool.’
Nikolai couldn’t help but notice the freckles running along her delicate nose and soft cheekbones. Her eyes, Nikolai fancied, were the emerald of the Pashto women of Afghanistan, though she didn’t have their dark skin. Hers being a pink tinged white that contrasted eyes and hair starkly.
‘So, what brings you-two to Seattle? I bet it’s not the weather,’ she said dryly, biting her lip as she stretched to look over the sofa at the rain-streaked pain of glass that made up the street facing wall.
A neon lit parody of Broadway East shimmered like a mirage on the rain slick pavement. ‘The weather sure as heck didn’t bring me here.’ Her sodden umbrella hung sentinel on a coat-rack next to the entrance along with all the other similarly coloured umbrellas.
‘Well…it’s a long story’
‘And maybe a bit stupid,’ Nogai added.
‘Come-on, try me.’ A baggy jeaned waiter with shaggy hair and a Nirvana t-shirt, dropped of a silky topped cappuccino. The foam wobbled like jelly, threatening to slip down the sides of the cup; it never did. She took it up like a sacred chalice, looking over the brim as she took a long grateful sip, gesturing with raised eyebrows for them to continue.
‘Frasier. You know it?’ Nikolai asked shyly.
She lowered the cup from her lips, ‘Frasier? The TV show? Yeh sure, I know it.’ They noticed the red imprint of lipstick against white porcelain.
‘We love the show,’ said Nikolai shrugging, ‘so we thought we’d come to the place where they filmed it, see if it holds up.’ Nikolai was rubbing his scar again, realising how silly their reasons for coming must sound.’
‘Maybe you can tell us where Café Nervosa is,’ Nogai asked hopefully.
Nora burst out laughing, ‘Frasier isn’t filmed here silly,’ stifling her laughter when she saw the serious and rather confused faces her new companions wore. ‘Café Nervosa isn’t real…,’ she added hesitantly. ‘I thought you were joking…sorry…’
‘But you can see the Seattle skyline from Frasier’s apartment,’ Nikolai ventured uncertainly.
‘Just a movie set.’ She flashed them an apologetic look, ‘the shows’ filmed in Los Angeles. I know because that’s where I’m from.’ She smiled wistfully, ‘Oh boy, I miss the sun, all I need to do is survive one more day.’
So, here they were, in Seattle, fooled. It was the second time they had been lured to a distant land. Once by Brezhnev and now by Frasier. At least the chances of surviving this escapade were more likely.
‘Like I told you man, nothing is what it seems,’ Nogai said, smiling sadly.
‘You were right. We should have known better’ Nikolai was dabbing at his stain again, despondent.
After a moment of deep reflection into his now empty cup, Nogai looked up, giving Nikolai that poignant look that always caused his wide Mongolic features to roll upwards in a cascade of wrinkled forehead, ‘wanna go to L.A?’
