Chapter 4

CUTTING TIES

18th of Sha’baan 1417

December 29, 1996

Queresh hailed a taxi on Second Avenue. He arrived along Seventh Avenue South. His office was large and spacious. A small nameplate, a green cloth blotter, and stray business papers armed his heavy wooden desk. He checked his appointment book and found he had scheduled a meeting with his good friend and business associate Alan Rothenberg. As he waited for Rothenberg, he was reminded sourly of the bavasaab’s words that he must break connections with his American friends. He had little idea how he planned to sever these connections. When his good friend Rothenberg arrived, he tried to explain his intentions.

Rothenberg, a small, thin individual, dressed meticulously in a coal black suit and wore a pair of orange, polka-dotted suspenders under his jacket. He took a seat. Queresh had always thought him quite handsome.

Rothenberg had been married twice already, and Queresh envied his zest for living. He met Rothenberg at a small gathering and immediately took a liking to him. He had a glorious sense of humor. Rothenberg loved to tell tasteless but humorous jokes, mostly involving escapades with young women.

“The market is doing well, my man,” said Rothenberg. “We’re lucky to be in such a market. It’s a good morning. The sun’s shining, the women are getting anxious...”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Whaddaya mean you guess? Hey, smile a little will ya? I’m inviting you and Maryam to this get-together Saturday. A lot of big people will be there including, you know who, John Rimpington. Does that name ring a bell?”

“Yes.”

“Whaddaya mean yes? Aren’t you still interested in taking over that business of his? He’s looking for a way out, last I heard. Shouldn’t you be calling him?”

“We’re all looking for a way out.”

“Ah-ha, the philosopher on such an early morning, eh?”

“Cut it out, Alan. How can you be so happy at such an early hour?”

“Do I detect a small hangover by chance?”

“You figured me out.”

“Well, I can only give you my best of advice: cut out the drinking.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Cheer up, will ya. You’re making me nervous.”

“Alan, we’ve been good friends for how long? Three, four, five years?”

“Yeah, so?”

“I’m thinking about ... I’m thinking quite strongly about selling the business and retiring somewhere.”

“You’re a little too young to be retiring. Besides, didn’t you just come back from a vacation?”

“And quite a vacation it was. I went with my wife, and we visited the Middle East.”

“Ah, Israel will always have that effect on a man’s heart. Where did you stay, Tel Aviv? I hope you didn’t go into the war zones.”

“Actually we went to Saudi Arabia for a spell.”

“Back in Moslem country, eh?”

Queresh paced the room. He stared at one of his prized impressionist paintings, a still-life, a basket of fruit next to a vase full of violets. He had purchased the painting from a young artist about whom many knew little. He admired its careless, thick brush strokes. He had worked hard to acquire it. He paid top dollar. This painting tried hard to remain within some established form and structure, yet conveyed confusion and uncertainty. He needed to tell Alan so much, but he couldn’t utter a word. The stirrings of the troubled soul on the edge of change needs an ear to unload his most precious secrets. Like insects streaking and hunting through his body Queresh possessed this self-doubt, devouring what remained of his confidence.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” remarked Rothenberg.

“Oh yes you have. I’ve been hiding it, but you’ve seen it.”

“When have I seen it?”

“Right now. You can say I’m going through changes.”

“Everyone goes through changes. Change is not such a bad thing, ya know.”

“I’ve got an idea. Let’s go out, you and me, for old time’s sake.”

“Queresh, it’s only ten in the morning.”

“Does it really matter?”

“I never heard of a bar opening this early. Listen, if you have a problem, just get it out and talk about it. I’m a drinking man myself, but don’t drown your problems, especially so early in the morning.”

“What if I told you I can never see you again, that I have to sell this business and move far away?”

“I would say you’re crazy. Is it the law? Y’know I’ve got some really good lawyers I could hook you up with...”

“It’s not the law, and I wish I could tell you everything, but I can’t. Listen, I need you to handle things around here until I sell the business.”

“Whatever’s bothering you, I really don’t think selling your business is the right move. I mean, you built this operation out of nothing, and now this small company of yours is emerging as a leader in textiles. You don’t want to abandon all that. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Maybe I should call John Rimpington.”

“He’s looking for a way out, not a way in.”

“Well damn it Alan, I’m looking for a way out too.”

“Settle down; just calm down and think things through. If you think a drink will help, let’s go out then. I know this place in the Village which opens right about now.”

Within moments the two were sitting at an old bar just off McDougal Street. Queresh had always been impressed with the narrow streets of the village. He marveled at the ancient brownstones, so inviting against the gusts of wind tunneling between the passageways and alleys. They ordered scotch and waters. The small bar was empty. Queresh looked at Alan with a grimace.

“I thought this is where you wanted to be,” said Alan.

“Yeah, I guess. It’s a little too early to be drinking.”

“For a man in your condition it’s never too early. Besides, it puts hair on your chest. Oviously something’s the matter at home.”