Zeno stopped cold. Unwillingly, he heard Martina's nagging voice. The warning flags went up as he cautiously responded. "OK, but before you start, tell me why you feel comfortable talking to me about these concerns -after all I'm a total stranger to you." He was all business, the evening forgotten.
He was surprised he'd said that. He wondered if it was a delayed reaction, if Martina's influence was greater than he'd thought. He felt deeply resentful about this state of affairs. Martina was taking too much space in his life, almost bossing him around like an Italian mother.
Noticing Zeno's reticence, Irina thought, “This man's either playing dumb or he's extremely intelligent”. How could he ask such a question at this point? He knew it would force Irina to admit either she was trusting a stranger -which would be a sign of weakness from her part- or she, for some reason, was considering this man in front of her as a confidant, which could lead to another hypothesis. Suddenly she felt as if he'd put her in a sort of lose-lose situation she didn't like at all. Actually, she decided defensively, she didn't want to know if he was stupid or intelligent, or simply trying to corner her. She just wanted to know this man better, and without judging him too quickly, she thought he might be able to help her. She chose to evade the question.
"Well,..." she said gratuitously without meaning to offend him, "I know I'm talking to a professional who works in many countries. Let's just say I'm seeking your professional advice. I'm in a bit of a quandary. The equipment I was going to deliver to the Omani government has disappeared between Dubai and here. See, the container necessary for the shipment was too large to pass under the gates of the town....so it had to be unloaded in Dubai"
Zeno, of course, couldn't chase Martina's voice from his head. Over and over he heard her telling him that Irina would not easily have accepted his invitation if it was not for some other reason other than the pleasure of his company. Her prescience annoyed him. His dream of seduction was shattered by both these women -one, by predicting an imminent disappointment -and the other by actually causing the disappointment. This date was quickly evolving into a catastrophe. He managed to conceal his feelings.
"Yes, I know, I've been told the story of the narrow gates...."
"Right. So, my equipment was shipped to Dubai."
"Excuse me Irina, from where?"
"Well, originally let's say from North America, but please don't ask for more details. The Omani are quite neurotic about confidentiality in international trading. From Dubai, I had the equipment transported by truck to Oman, final destination, Muscat, for official delivery."
"What kind of equipment? Is this stuff very expensive? Were you insured?" Zeno fired the questions like a machine gun, not giving her time to stop him before he finished, hoping to catch her off guard.
"Please don't ask any questions!" ordered Irina imperiously, only slightly raising her voice. Though he guessed she was on the verge of getting angry with him, Zeno could not resist the temptation of probing deeper. After all, being curious was part of his training as a consultant, beside he now felt he had nothing to lose.
"You know, I'm really starting to wonder why you are telling me all this, Irina. After all, how do you expect me to give you professional advice if you are withholding even the most basic information?"
"Well. Let's just say maybe I need someone to listen to me objectively, someone from a totally different field, someone who doesn't represent a potential threat to me."
Now he felt like he'd taken a blow to his chest. This beautiful woman in front of him was not even considering him for his charm, but only for his objectivity. She needed a sounding board? He was totally disgusted. With the touch of masochism that characterizes some Italian men, he probed again, this time allowing a bit of sarcasm to escape with the question.
"You mean someone like a friend?"
Irina stiffened. "Call it friendship if you will, but don't think I'm getting romantic or soft. Friends are a fiction, they don't exist, at least not in this world. The Japanese say business is war, therefore business people are warriors, and, as you may know, warriors are lonely people. They cannot afford to have friends. They must rely exclusively on their own inner strength."
Zeno became increasingly disturbed by the direction of their conversation. He started attacking the subject, trying to hide how sensitive he felt.
"Wow... listen... the world you depict is a little too harsh for me. I'm also in business, in a cut-throat competitive environment, but I think you're exaggerating. I have friends, people on whom I can count. And I know I can rely on my group of colleagues and associates to overcome any difficulties."
"Oh, Zeno, I don't want to upset you." Zeno wondered if she realized she'd done that already. "But you certainly have a boy-scout sense of reality. If your way has worked up to now, let me tell you, it's probably because you have remained in a sheltered circle, that you've not yet crossed the path of real business-warriors. The day you do, you'll agree with me -and I hope for your sake- you'll react quickly enough to limit the damage to you and your organization." The put down was a little much for Zeno. Who did she think she was talking to? Was his destiny to cross path with women like Martina?
"Fine Irina, let's change the subject. I believe there's no way to continue this conversation, clearly you and I are living on two different planets."
Zeno stopped there, almost regretting his rush of adrenaline and wondering if his initial interest and attraction to Irina would not end right here and now because of the deep division in their perceptions. After all, his first marriage had eroded for those very reasons. He felt confused, and wondered why he was reacting so angrily. The woman had actually done nothing wrong to him. True, his ego had taken a beating with a few involuntary blows, but there was really nothing to reproach her for. However, he felt justifiably angry at Martina. She'd been the one to seed all that crap in his head.
Irina, reflective for a moment, brightened and looked into Zeno's eyes. "Yes, let's change the subject. Waiter...bring us a bottle of Moët Chandon, 1985...if you still have some...and tell the chef to bring the box of Iranian caviar I had delivered this afternoon."
Zeno laughed.
"You know Irina, I love caviar, but there is probably nothing as badly contaminated as caviar nowadays. The Caspian Sea basically has become a cesspool, full of heavy metals and organics. It's amazing there are some fish still able to survive in it."
"Sure, sure. Don't waste my caviar, please. It tastes great, and anyway, one has to die of something, so I prefer poisoning myself with caviar in this place rather than dying of air pollution on a freezing morning in Budapest."
"Budapest? Why Budapest of all places?"
"Oh, it just came to mind. I was there last winter and I thought I would die!"
Swallowing the first spoonful of silvery pearls, Zeno observed that Irina had decidedly good taste, was well-organized -very well-organized -and she left little to chance. Although feeling a little wounded, Zeno remained fascinated by her, and after two glasses of champagne and a few more spoons of caviar, he completely forgot the world of business wars Irina had described.
Totally relaxed, he enjoyed the rest of the evening, resigned to the fact that he would probably never see this splendid female again .
November 2nd, Hotel Al Bustan, Muscat, Oman, Zeno and Irina tell their story, No 25
"Well, my father was Italian, my mother is Tatarian, and I was born in the States."
"Are you kidding me?" interjected Irina with a laugh, and continued without allowing Zeno the time to answer, "You may find it hard to believe this, but I'm also half Tatarian! I'm the daughter of a Russian man and a Tatarian woman. Who would've thought that you and I could share some genetic origins...maybe we're cousins.” Her smile was bewitching -Zeno wondered if she was making up the story, toying with him, but she continued, the spontaneity in her voice revealing a certain sincerity.
“Like most of the Tatars, my mother's family escaped from central Russia during the 1916 revolution. They had been land owners, and since that was politically unpopular, they were forced to flee a few thousand kilometers east during the winter," Irina flashed with one of her unbelievable smiles.
Zeno was flabbergasted by the sudden realization they had so much in common. Her spontaneity enthused him and as he resumed his story, he began looking forward to what seemed to be developing into a wonderful evening of mutual discovery.
"My father -his name was Alberto- was a strange guy. As a young man he fought in Korea as a GI. There he met and fell in love with a beautiful Tatarian woman, Aicha -my mother.” Zeno's face clouded slightly. He looked at his hands, aware that his narrative seemed to falter. “Later in his life, he was implicated in a number of, shall we say, adventures which had strong repercussions in our family's life. I learned these stories when I was old enough to read and understand some papers I found in my parent's home..."
"Our genetic roots are not the only similarities”, Irina interrupted. “It looks like our parents shared adventurous lifestyles. Don't ask me how or when, but my parents ended up in India. My mother never wanted to talk about that period. My father died mysteriously in Bombay, when I was very little -I actually have no recollection of him at all. I was brought up in India and in the US. I went to the States with my mother when I was just a teenager. Did you know that there's a large Tatarian colony in the Bay Area? Some cousins offered to help get us there...and..."
"Oh, right...I know what you mean when you say “some cousins”, believe me!" interjected Zeno. "Did you go to school there?"
Irina nodded and continued. "mmm-hmm, I finished high school there, then did a BSc in mathematics at UCLA. My mother died just before my graduation. After that, I went to University of Arizona for an MSc. in mechanical engineering, and finally I got an MBA at the University of San Francisco." Irina recalled those nearly forgotten days, and how she had paid for all her studies by herself, mainly dealing blackjack in Carson City and Reno, and once in a while in Lake Tahoe. Few people in her life knew these details.
"You know, this is really a crazy set of coincidences. I probably should introduce you to my business partner." Zeno put the emphasis on the word business. "She also shares our eastern Asiatic origins."
Irina's beautiful face froze for a fraction of a second, and in her eyes flashed emerald darts. She doesn't like competition, he thought, not even potential competition. She's the ultimate prima-donna, a queen. Zeno decided to take this into account and avoid stupid mistakes if he wanted to see her again. He quickly resumed the tactically safe position of continuing his family story.
"Anyway..., my mother was the daughter of a very large and multi-faceted family whose cousins were forced to emigrate during the Sino-Japanese conflict. Some went to China, some to Turkey, and some were raised under Japanese rule in Korea and stayed there until the Korean war. Dad told her he would fetch and marry her at the end of the war -and he kept his promise. My older brother Carlo and I were born some years later. I was partially brought up in Italy, after Dad had to leave the US after of some of his deals...um...deals turned sour. When I was eighteen years old I was sent to Switzerland as a student in the EPFL, the Federal Technical University . At the time Italian universities were plagued by permanent strikes and political problems."
"So, you did your studies in Switzerland -Zürich or Lausanne?"
"Oh, you know Switzerland?"
"Well of course. I often have business there... particularly in Lausanne."
"That's amazing," Zeno said, starting to wonder if the splendid female in front of him was not simply trying to find as many coincidences as possible in order to gain his confidence in as short a time as she could. Dismissing the thought, he continued his story, omitting that Lausanne was his European residence.
"When my dad died, my mother stayed in Turin, where she still lives. During my studies, and after learning about the real nature of Dad's profession, I began to drift away from my mother, though I still kept very close to my brother Carlo. It was probably one of the worst periods of my life. That's when I met and married what I refer to as “mon erreur de jeunesse”, my 'youth mistake'. We had three children and finally I divorced her before going totally insane."
Irina had her own experience with Swiss women each time she visited that country. She tried to suppress a smile at the idea of Zeno's “erreur de jeunesse”. She had heard men talk about their ex-wives as bitches and other ugly names, but never as 'youth mistakes'. Somehow, it meant something different. Was this man taking some responsibility, not blaming it all on the woman? Interesting.
Subconsciously she envisioned a comedy with Zeno and his Heidi fighting over a chocolate bar...the stereotype popped into her mind every time she talked about or traveled to Switzerland. Smiling inwardly, she asked, "And where is your family?"
"My nineteen-year-old son, Charles, is studying fishery in Canada, and the two younger ones, John and Mathilda, who live in Switzerland with their mother when I'm not there."
"And where do you live, Zeno?"
“Here we go”, Zeno thought, “now she is going to hit me with another of her coincidences and she expects me to fall for it.”
"I live in an old country house I'm restoring, on the outskirts of Lausanne."
Contrary to Zeno's expectations she didn't blink an eye. She's really good, he thought. A perfect manipulator, yet, he felt more and more attracted to her. He went for a little self promotion. "As you may have noticed at the conference, I'm the principal engineer of Earth System Research. ESR is an international firm with offices in Europe, the US, Canada, South America, the Middle East, and Taiwan. We're consultants and risk managers in the field of environmental earth sciences and underground engineering."
"Oh yes, I've heard of ESR, I'm impressed. I gather your work consists of visiting all your offices, troubleshooting hot situations. That's why I knew you wouldn't be as boring as the average engineer."
"Well, you didn't really think you were taking a chance, because if you did you wouldn't have accepted my invitation."
Irina seemed pleased by the witty exchange and asked. "And what about your projects in the Middle East. Could you explain exactly what you're doing here?"
A waiter arrived and Zeno paused to order a white wine, opting for a flowery Australian Chardonnay, an easy wine that would not displease even a non-cultivated palate, he thought. Then he launched into his standard pitch about the project.
"Certainly, but let me make a long story very short," he smiled, "I don't want you to change your mind about me not being boring." He settled into an explanation he'd given so many times before. "Oil fields are the places where wells are bored into the earth to extract oil from natural reservoirs. The oil is never alone, but comes with water -generally salty or brackish water extracted with the oil, and it's loaded with pollutants. Oil companies want to dehydrate the oil, that is, to separate the oil from the water. The oil industry considers the water an unpleasant secondary product to be disposed of as quickly as possible. Generally this can be done using quite simple and primitive techniques. Now, on the one hand there are methods to dispose of this water where it originates, that is, in the oil rock reservoir or at a similar depth, but on the other hand these methods are not always applicable, and sometimes implementing them is very expensive. We were asked by our clients to find alternative beneficial uses of this waste water, and to study the applicability of disposing of large amounts of water in regions where there's lots of space, but few inhabitants."
"And what have you found?"
"Well, after examining many different possibilities, including turning it into drinking water by sophisticated clean-up techniques -or using it to grow aquatic plants, bugs, fish, or making industrial quality water, growing algae and so on -we have determined the most viable strategy would be to develop agricultural farming with some very select species of plants and an even more select range of derivative products. Food for humans and feed or fodder for livestock would be avoided, in order to minimize risks about the accumulation of toxic metals in the organic tissue of the vegetable"
"But how many people work on this project and what kind of expertise do they have?" asked Irina.
"Actually, the project team is made of ESR experts working in Switzerland, Vancouver and San Francisco. It's a rather small team -fifteen people altogether. Engineers, hydro-geologists, pedologists, biologists and one oceanographer- each one staking out his or her parcel of truth, along with your humble servant here, trying to make sense out of all these experts for our clients. My command of several languages sure helps and organizing a transcultural team to work on such a project is a very interesting challenge. It brings together people with different backgrounds and different sensibilities, allowing us to deliver a perfectly balanced product to the client. Not too much technology, not too little. Not too much humanism, not too little."
Irina nodded with the look of somebody who understands all the intricacies and the subtleties of a complicated synergy. He noticed how she'd been unfazed by his technical descriptions seemingly absorbing features of his specialized language.
The waiter brought the wine, and served it to Zeno, without allowing him to taste it first. Irina and Zeno shared smiles at his ineptness, and toasted each other.
Zeno watched as Irina turned a sip of the Australian Chardonnay in her mouth, slowly moving her jaw forward and back to allow the wine to touch all the delicate taste buds on her tongue. She concentrated, closing her eyes, apparently forgetting about the conversation. Zeno stared at her, surprised and aroused by the evocative movements of Irina's mouth.
She broke the crystalline silence and said, "A little edgy, too forced on the flowery side, too easy. This wine is definitely good for non-experienced, unsophisticated markets. I hope you did not order this to please me!" she teased.
Before Zeno was able to resume breathing she continued the conversation.
"I'm working for the Omani government. -actually I'm selling them some equipment- but there is another reason for me to be in Oman. I have organized an export business of Persian carpets from Iran."
"But their export is..." Zeno tried to interject, but she cut him off by raising a perfectly manicured finger to her lips.
"Don't worry, borders and rules are made to be broken. Iran is only fifty miles away -right in front of this beach -and it gets even closer west of Muscat," she said gesturing northwest with an elegant sweep of her long fingers, jangling the dozens of gold bangles covering her slender wrist. She was a real manipulator, Zeno thought. Iranians probably hated to deal with a woman, especially a woman like this. They probably dumped in their pants when she ordered them around. The topic dropped, they sipped their “too easy” Chardonnay.
"And now we are acquainted," said Irina leaning closer to him, her voice becoming confidential, "let me tell you about my immediate concerns."
"Are you kidding me?" interjected Irina with a laugh, and continued without allowing Zeno the time to answer, "You may find it hard to believe this, but I'm also half Tatarian! I'm the daughter of a Russian man and a Tatarian woman. Who would've thought that you and I could share some genetic origins...maybe we're cousins.” Her smile was bewitching -Zeno wondered if she was making up the story, toying with him, but she continued, the spontaneity in her voice revealing a certain sincerity.
“Like most of the Tatars, my mother's family escaped from central Russia during the 1916 revolution. They had been land owners, and since that was politically unpopular, they were forced to flee a few thousand kilometers east during the winter," Irina flashed with one of her unbelievable smiles.
Zeno was flabbergasted by the sudden realization they had so much in common. Her spontaneity enthused him and as he resumed his story, he began looking forward to what seemed to be developing into a wonderful evening of mutual discovery.
"My father -his name was Alberto- was a strange guy. As a young man he fought in Korea as a GI. There he met and fell in love with a beautiful Tatarian woman, Aicha -my mother.” Zeno's face clouded slightly. He looked at his hands, aware that his narrative seemed to falter. “Later in his life, he was implicated in a number of, shall we say, adventures which had strong repercussions in our family's life. I learned these stories when I was old enough to read and understand some papers I found in my parent's home..."
"Our genetic roots are not the only similarities”, Irina interrupted. “It looks like our parents shared adventurous lifestyles. Don't ask me how or when, but my parents ended up in India. My mother never wanted to talk about that period. My father died mysteriously in Bombay, when I was very little -I actually have no recollection of him at all. I was brought up in India and in the US. I went to the States with my mother when I was just a teenager. Did you know that there's a large Tatarian colony in the Bay Area? Some cousins offered to help get us there...and..."
"Oh, right...I know what you mean when you say “some cousins”, believe me!" interjected Zeno. "Did you go to school there?"
Irina nodded and continued. "mmm-hmm, I finished high school there, then did a BSc in mathematics at UCLA. My mother died just before my graduation. After that, I went to University of Arizona for an MSc. in mechanical engineering, and finally I got an MBA at the University of San Francisco." Irina recalled those nearly forgotten days, and how she had paid for all her studies by herself, mainly dealing blackjack in Carson City and Reno, and once in a while in Lake Tahoe. Few people in her life knew these details.
"You know, this is really a crazy set of coincidences. I probably should introduce you to my business partner." Zeno put the emphasis on the word business. "She also shares our eastern Asiatic origins."
Irina's beautiful face froze for a fraction of a second, and in her eyes flashed emerald darts. She doesn't like competition, he thought, not even potential competition. She's the ultimate prima-donna, a queen. Zeno decided to take this into account and avoid stupid mistakes if he wanted to see her again. He quickly resumed the tactically safe position of continuing his family story.
"Anyway..., my mother was the daughter of a very large and multi-faceted family whose cousins were forced to emigrate during the Sino-Japanese conflict. Some went to China, some to Turkey, and some were raised under Japanese rule in Korea and stayed there until the Korean war. Dad told her he would fetch and marry her at the end of the war -and he kept his promise. My older brother Carlo and I were born some years later. I was partially brought up in Italy, after Dad had to leave the US after of some of his deals...um...deals turned sour. When I was eighteen years old I was sent to Switzerland as a student in the EPFL, the Federal Technical University . At the time Italian universities were plagued by permanent strikes and political problems."
"So, you did your studies in Switzerland -Zürich or Lausanne?"
"Oh, you know Switzerland?"
"Well of course. I often have business there... particularly in Lausanne."
"That's amazing," Zeno said, starting to wonder if the splendid female in front of him was not simply trying to find as many coincidences as possible in order to gain his confidence in as short a time as she could. Dismissing the thought, he continued his story, omitting that Lausanne was his European residence.
"When my dad died, my mother stayed in Turin, where she still lives. During my studies, and after learning about the real nature of Dad's profession, I began to drift away from my mother, though I still kept very close to my brother Carlo. It was probably one of the worst periods of my life. That's when I met and married what I refer to as “mon erreur de jeunesse”, my 'youth mistake'. We had three children and finally I divorced her before going totally insane."
Irina had her own experience with Swiss women each time she visited that country. She tried to suppress a smile at the idea of Zeno's “erreur de jeunesse”. She had heard men talk about their ex-wives as bitches and other ugly names, but never as 'youth mistakes'. Somehow, it meant something different. Was this man taking some responsibility, not blaming it all on the woman? Interesting.
Subconsciously she envisioned a comedy with Zeno and his Heidi fighting over a chocolate bar...the stereotype popped into her mind every time she talked about or traveled to Switzerland. Smiling inwardly, she asked, "And where is your family?"
"My nineteen-year-old son, Charles, is studying fishery in Canada, and the two younger ones, John and Mathilda, who live in Switzerland with their mother when I'm not there."
"And where do you live, Zeno?"
“Here we go”, Zeno thought, “now she is going to hit me with another of her coincidences and she expects me to fall for it.”
"I live in an old country house I'm restoring, on the outskirts of Lausanne."
Contrary to Zeno's expectations she didn't blink an eye. She's really good, he thought. A perfect manipulator, yet, he felt more and more attracted to her. He went for a little self promotion. "As you may have noticed at the conference, I'm the principal engineer of Earth System Research. ESR is an international firm with offices in Europe, the US, Canada, South America, the Middle East, and Taiwan. We're consultants and risk managers in the field of environmental earth sciences and underground engineering."
"Oh yes, I've heard of ESR, I'm impressed. I gather your work consists of visiting all your offices, troubleshooting hot situations. That's why I knew you wouldn't be as boring as the average engineer."
"Well, you didn't really think you were taking a chance, because if you did you wouldn't have accepted my invitation."
Irina seemed pleased by the witty exchange and asked. "And what about your projects in the Middle East. Could you explain exactly what you're doing here?"
A waiter arrived and Zeno paused to order a white wine, opting for a flowery Australian Chardonnay, an easy wine that would not displease even a non-cultivated palate, he thought. Then he launched into his standard pitch about the project.
"Certainly, but let me make a long story very short," he smiled, "I don't want you to change your mind about me not being boring." He settled into an explanation he'd given so many times before. "Oil fields are the places where wells are bored into the earth to extract oil from natural reservoirs. The oil is never alone, but comes with water -generally salty or brackish water extracted with the oil, and it's loaded with pollutants. Oil companies want to dehydrate the oil, that is, to separate the oil from the water. The oil industry considers the water an unpleasant secondary product to be disposed of as quickly as possible. Generally this can be done using quite simple and primitive techniques. Now, on the one hand there are methods to dispose of this water where it originates, that is, in the oil rock reservoir or at a similar depth, but on the other hand these methods are not always applicable, and sometimes implementing them is very expensive. We were asked by our clients to find alternative beneficial uses of this waste water, and to study the applicability of disposing of large amounts of water in regions where there's lots of space, but few inhabitants."
"And what have you found?"
"Well, after examining many different possibilities, including turning it into drinking water by sophisticated clean-up techniques -or using it to grow aquatic plants, bugs, fish, or making industrial quality water, growing algae and so on -we have determined the most viable strategy would be to develop agricultural farming with some very select species of plants and an even more select range of derivative products. Food for humans and feed or fodder for livestock would be avoided, in order to minimize risks about the accumulation of toxic metals in the organic tissue of the vegetable"
"But how many people work on this project and what kind of expertise do they have?" asked Irina.
"Actually, the project team is made of ESR experts working in Switzerland, Vancouver and San Francisco. It's a rather small team -fifteen people altogether. Engineers, hydro-geologists, pedologists, biologists and one oceanographer- each one staking out his or her parcel of truth, along with your humble servant here, trying to make sense out of all these experts for our clients. My command of several languages sure helps and organizing a transcultural team to work on such a project is a very interesting challenge. It brings together people with different backgrounds and different sensibilities, allowing us to deliver a perfectly balanced product to the client. Not too much technology, not too little. Not too much humanism, not too little."
Irina nodded with the look of somebody who understands all the intricacies and the subtleties of a complicated synergy. He noticed how she'd been unfazed by his technical descriptions seemingly absorbing features of his specialized language.
The waiter brought the wine, and served it to Zeno, without allowing him to taste it first. Irina and Zeno shared smiles at his ineptness, and toasted each other.
Zeno watched as Irina turned a sip of the Australian Chardonnay in her mouth, slowly moving her jaw forward and back to allow the wine to touch all the delicate taste buds on her tongue. She concentrated, closing her eyes, apparently forgetting about the conversation. Zeno stared at her, surprised and aroused by the evocative movements of Irina's mouth.
She broke the crystalline silence and said, "A little edgy, too forced on the flowery side, too easy. This wine is definitely good for non-experienced, unsophisticated markets. I hope you did not order this to please me!" she teased.
Before Zeno was able to resume breathing she continued the conversation.
"I'm working for the Omani government. -actually I'm selling them some equipment- but there is another reason for me to be in Oman. I have organized an export business of Persian carpets from Iran."
"But their export is..." Zeno tried to interject, but she cut him off by raising a perfectly manicured finger to her lips.
"Don't worry, borders and rules are made to be broken. Iran is only fifty miles away -right in front of this beach -and it gets even closer west of Muscat," she said gesturing northwest with an elegant sweep of her long fingers, jangling the dozens of gold bangles covering her slender wrist. She was a real manipulator, Zeno thought. Iranians probably hated to deal with a woman, especially a woman like this. They probably dumped in their pants when she ordered them around. The topic dropped, they sipped their “too easy” Chardonnay.
"And now we are acquainted," said Irina leaning closer to him, her voice becoming confidential, "let me tell you about my immediate concerns."
November 2nd, Hotel Al Bustan, Muscat, Oman, Zeno meets Irina, No 24
Finally, the time came to meet Irina. The lobby of the Al Bustan Palace Hotel replicated the classical magnificence of the best Moorish architecture.
Built in an octagonal shape, the domed lobby recalled the interior of a mosque.
First-time visitors felt their hearts skip a beat as they experienced the jewel-like colors and suffused light of the Al Bustan. Glazed tiles covering the walls in delicious tones of aqua and mint green, delivered a sense of coolness and peace. The tranquility was enhanced by the permanent perfume of frankincense radiated by traditional burners strategically placed in the gigantic open space. In the middle of the floor a monumental marble fountain filled the chamber with the joyful echoes of splashing water -so welcoming in this hot desert country.
As Zeno expected she would, Irina made a prima-donna entrance, walking slowly out of one of the mirrored lifts like a queen entering her court. Resplendent in an elegant silk shalvar camiz, a classic East-Indian dress consisting of a long flowing tunic over slacks gathered at the ankle, she had changed her hairstyle, pulling the luxurious mane toward the back of her head and securing it with an exquisite golden clip. Long and equally impressive ear-rings framed her cheeks, and around her neck she wore a radiant filigree necklace.
Zeno swallowed hard, shocked by the provocative sensuality emanating from Irina. Coming back to reality, he first wondered why in the hell she had picked an Indian dress, it seemed so odd, but he decided, after all, the dress seemed to suit her elegance perfectly. There was not a person, male or female, who did not notice her in the lobby. Entire groups stopped in mid-conversation, a tribute to her beauty as she passed. Zeno and Irina greeted each other formally, so formally, in fact, Zeno felt very clumsy.
"I have reserved a table at the beach front," he said a little awkwardly, "I hope you don't mind."
"Oh how nice..." Irina added breezily, "I love the beach and I know a few people there -good idea!"
They walked slowly down to the restaurant, Zeno offering his arm in classic Italian form.
As Zeno had requested when he made the reservation, they were seated in the first row of tables under the palm trees facing the beach, and they made polite conversation about the fabulous garden setting. Zeno, impatient to get on with the evening, said, "I tried to reach you by telephone this afternoon, but no one at the desk knew you were staying here."
Irina smiled, and replied almost condescendingly, "Of course, they do not register the hosts in the seventh floor private suites."
"Seventh floor? There is no seventh floor in the lifts," said Zeno with a smile of disbelief to hide his confusion.
"You're right, Dr. Santucci, but there is indeed a seventh floor with eight privately owned suites. See -although part of the hotel- these are private suites, staffed with each owner's own trusted personnel, and the access is independent from the lobby."
"But how...?"
"Well, Dr. Santucci, I am not allowed to tell you exactly how one accesses them -that was your question, wasn't it- but let's say it includes using a limo..."
Zeno was flabbergasted.
So it was not a myth.
He remembered hearing the story about the unbelievable suites on the top of the hotel, and how patrons could reach their suites without stepping out of their armored limousine, by using a very special and private "elevator." He decided to drop the subject, afraid he'd look stupid. He didn't even want to know in whose suite she was staying. Was she involved with one of these ultra-wealthy, powerful men? Zeno thought certainly she couldn't be, because she wouldn't have accepted his invitation if she was.
He was just beginning to feel reassured when she broke the uncomfortable pause in the conversation by asking, "So, Dr. Santucci. May I call you Zeno? Tell me all about you!"
"Please -and may I call you Irina... if you don't mind, of course."
She looked at him straight in the eyes, with a calculating, yet tender smile and whispered, "Not at all, go ahead, Zeno, I had a chance to hear people speaking a little bit about you and your organization, and I thought it was fascinating. Tell me all about yourself."
Zeno's internal warning system screamed in his head. Was this a Freudian slip? Who was fascinating? Zeno as a person, or ESR? And for what purpose? He chose to ignore all alarm bells and volunteer some information.
Built in an octagonal shape, the domed lobby recalled the interior of a mosque.
First-time visitors felt their hearts skip a beat as they experienced the jewel-like colors and suffused light of the Al Bustan. Glazed tiles covering the walls in delicious tones of aqua and mint green, delivered a sense of coolness and peace. The tranquility was enhanced by the permanent perfume of frankincense radiated by traditional burners strategically placed in the gigantic open space. In the middle of the floor a monumental marble fountain filled the chamber with the joyful echoes of splashing water -so welcoming in this hot desert country.
As Zeno expected she would, Irina made a prima-donna entrance, walking slowly out of one of the mirrored lifts like a queen entering her court. Resplendent in an elegant silk shalvar camiz, a classic East-Indian dress consisting of a long flowing tunic over slacks gathered at the ankle, she had changed her hairstyle, pulling the luxurious mane toward the back of her head and securing it with an exquisite golden clip. Long and equally impressive ear-rings framed her cheeks, and around her neck she wore a radiant filigree necklace.
Zeno swallowed hard, shocked by the provocative sensuality emanating from Irina. Coming back to reality, he first wondered why in the hell she had picked an Indian dress, it seemed so odd, but he decided, after all, the dress seemed to suit her elegance perfectly. There was not a person, male or female, who did not notice her in the lobby. Entire groups stopped in mid-conversation, a tribute to her beauty as she passed. Zeno and Irina greeted each other formally, so formally, in fact, Zeno felt very clumsy.
"I have reserved a table at the beach front," he said a little awkwardly, "I hope you don't mind."
"Oh how nice..." Irina added breezily, "I love the beach and I know a few people there -good idea!"
They walked slowly down to the restaurant, Zeno offering his arm in classic Italian form.
As Zeno had requested when he made the reservation, they were seated in the first row of tables under the palm trees facing the beach, and they made polite conversation about the fabulous garden setting. Zeno, impatient to get on with the evening, said, "I tried to reach you by telephone this afternoon, but no one at the desk knew you were staying here."
Irina smiled, and replied almost condescendingly, "Of course, they do not register the hosts in the seventh floor private suites."
"Seventh floor? There is no seventh floor in the lifts," said Zeno with a smile of disbelief to hide his confusion.
"You're right, Dr. Santucci, but there is indeed a seventh floor with eight privately owned suites. See -although part of the hotel- these are private suites, staffed with each owner's own trusted personnel, and the access is independent from the lobby."
"But how...?"
"Well, Dr. Santucci, I am not allowed to tell you exactly how one accesses them -that was your question, wasn't it- but let's say it includes using a limo..."
Zeno was flabbergasted.
So it was not a myth.
He remembered hearing the story about the unbelievable suites on the top of the hotel, and how patrons could reach their suites without stepping out of their armored limousine, by using a very special and private "elevator." He decided to drop the subject, afraid he'd look stupid. He didn't even want to know in whose suite she was staying. Was she involved with one of these ultra-wealthy, powerful men? Zeno thought certainly she couldn't be, because she wouldn't have accepted his invitation if she was.
He was just beginning to feel reassured when she broke the uncomfortable pause in the conversation by asking, "So, Dr. Santucci. May I call you Zeno? Tell me all about you!"
"Please -and may I call you Irina... if you don't mind, of course."
She looked at him straight in the eyes, with a calculating, yet tender smile and whispered, "Not at all, go ahead, Zeno, I had a chance to hear people speaking a little bit about you and your organization, and I thought it was fascinating. Tell me all about yourself."
Zeno's internal warning system screamed in his head. Was this a Freudian slip? Who was fascinating? Zeno as a person, or ESR? And for what purpose? He chose to ignore all alarm bells and volunteer some information.
November 2nd, Hotel Al Bustan, Muscat, Oman, Martina gets jealous, No 23
Martina almost choked on the last drops of coffee from the exquisite porcelain cup.
"Zeno, you really surprise me. I know you're a romantic, but I've never known you to be so... attentive, especially with a woman you hardly know." Martina paused, mockingly she pushed out her lower lip, like a pouting child, "...I'm becoming a little jealous."
Zeno looked at her, feigning disbelief.
As she was engaged in a long-term relationship with his brother, he knew indeed very well jealousy was not precisely the issue with Martina. What she was feeling was simply frustration for not possessing everyone and everything around her, no matter what and how.
She didn't leave him a chance to speak.
"To tell you the truth, Zeno, I wonder what prompted her to accept your invitation -just like that. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not trying to say you're not interesting and attractive, but I can't believe a woman like Vassileva doesn't have a hidden agenda. She's the epitome of pragmatism. Last night, our gross Mr. Zandar filled me in on her... She's apparently capable of being rather treacherous."
Zeno felt a stinging in his cheecks. He had detected a similar disapproving look on the men's faces the night before. He wasn't stupid.
"Hmmm... Martina, you're probably right," he sighed, trying not to sound too defensive, "but she really does something to me. You know, I really feel like knowing her better, even if it turns out to be a dead-end. After my divorce in Switzerland, I thought I would never feel anything for a woman again." Too hurt, too scared, he thought, too many other easy ways to be happy without the responsibility of a relationship. "I always thought I had enough love in my life with the kids, but, let me tell you, this lady's gotten to me."
After fumbling with some electronic gadget in her purse which had started beeping, Martina nodded and said as she studied the tiny contraption rather than looking at him, "Yep, that's precisely what you should watch out for. Responding emotionally instead of rationally is not a good idea Zeno, everybody thinks the lady is a real manipulator."
"Come on now -don't push it," replied Zeno a little too fast, betraying his growing annoyance. "You should be the first to admit it -people tell the stories that excite them the most, and there are no better than the stories about business women..."
With a serious expression, Martina leaned forward across the table and whispered, "Zeno, I agree, but please, promise me you'll behave like an adult and not like a ..."
Zeno was not smiling any more.
Stiffly he said, "Look, Martina, we're friends, business partners -and we share lots of things in our lives. As a matter of fact, we even share my brother Carlo. But at this very moment, I'm warning you, you're way out of line here. This is my private life and I intend to keep it that way."
Martina knew she had seriously crossed a very thin boundary that Zeno would defend at any cost. He was keen to keep his private life as far away from their business as possible. Martina decided to take a full step back, and try to undo the damage she had already done.
"Whoa, Zeno, I' m sorry. I didn't think you'd be so touchy about this. I'm really sorry. Let's change the subject."
The reminder of the breakfast was cordial, but strained as they kept to safe topics about the day's agenda.
Martina had decided to take the day off.
Zeno should have done the same for he had trouble concentrating all day. Happily he didn't have anything challenging, only a number of boring meetings with expatriate British engineers working for various Omani ministries.
After hours of useless discussions with a second group of particularly obnoxious technical experts belonging to a newly formed commission, Zeno excused himself.
With the unbridled excitement of a teenager getting ready for a first date, he dressed for the much-anticipated evening. He selected a light silver gray suit, a cool pink Cerruti shirt, and a dark violet Boss tie with olive dots, perfectly matching his silk pochette.
"Zeno, you really surprise me. I know you're a romantic, but I've never known you to be so... attentive, especially with a woman you hardly know." Martina paused, mockingly she pushed out her lower lip, like a pouting child, "...I'm becoming a little jealous."
Zeno looked at her, feigning disbelief.
As she was engaged in a long-term relationship with his brother, he knew indeed very well jealousy was not precisely the issue with Martina. What she was feeling was simply frustration for not possessing everyone and everything around her, no matter what and how.
She didn't leave him a chance to speak.
"To tell you the truth, Zeno, I wonder what prompted her to accept your invitation -just like that. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not trying to say you're not interesting and attractive, but I can't believe a woman like Vassileva doesn't have a hidden agenda. She's the epitome of pragmatism. Last night, our gross Mr. Zandar filled me in on her... She's apparently capable of being rather treacherous."
Zeno felt a stinging in his cheecks. He had detected a similar disapproving look on the men's faces the night before. He wasn't stupid.
"Hmmm... Martina, you're probably right," he sighed, trying not to sound too defensive, "but she really does something to me. You know, I really feel like knowing her better, even if it turns out to be a dead-end. After my divorce in Switzerland, I thought I would never feel anything for a woman again." Too hurt, too scared, he thought, too many other easy ways to be happy without the responsibility of a relationship. "I always thought I had enough love in my life with the kids, but, let me tell you, this lady's gotten to me."
After fumbling with some electronic gadget in her purse which had started beeping, Martina nodded and said as she studied the tiny contraption rather than looking at him, "Yep, that's precisely what you should watch out for. Responding emotionally instead of rationally is not a good idea Zeno, everybody thinks the lady is a real manipulator."
"Come on now -don't push it," replied Zeno a little too fast, betraying his growing annoyance. "You should be the first to admit it -people tell the stories that excite them the most, and there are no better than the stories about business women..."
With a serious expression, Martina leaned forward across the table and whispered, "Zeno, I agree, but please, promise me you'll behave like an adult and not like a ..."
Zeno was not smiling any more.
Stiffly he said, "Look, Martina, we're friends, business partners -and we share lots of things in our lives. As a matter of fact, we even share my brother Carlo. But at this very moment, I'm warning you, you're way out of line here. This is my private life and I intend to keep it that way."
Martina knew she had seriously crossed a very thin boundary that Zeno would defend at any cost. He was keen to keep his private life as far away from their business as possible. Martina decided to take a full step back, and try to undo the damage she had already done.
"Whoa, Zeno, I' m sorry. I didn't think you'd be so touchy about this. I'm really sorry. Let's change the subject."
The reminder of the breakfast was cordial, but strained as they kept to safe topics about the day's agenda.
Martina had decided to take the day off.
Zeno should have done the same for he had trouble concentrating all day. Happily he didn't have anything challenging, only a number of boring meetings with expatriate British engineers working for various Omani ministries.
After hours of useless discussions with a second group of particularly obnoxious technical experts belonging to a newly formed commission, Zeno excused himself.
With the unbridled excitement of a teenager getting ready for a first date, he dressed for the much-anticipated evening. He selected a light silver gray suit, a cool pink Cerruti shirt, and a dark violet Boss tie with olive dots, perfectly matching his silk pochette.
November 2nd, Hotel Al Bustan, Muscat, Oman, No 22
With the efficiency of a drill instructor, Martina woke at seven sharp.
When Zeno finally emerged from his room and joined her for breakfast in the restaurant beside the swimming pool, she was ready to go to the beach.
One of the most luxurious hotels in the world, the Al Bustan, boasted not only an exotic, cooled swimming pool, but a magnificent private beach. The architects employed a concept known as vertical separation to avoid conflicts between patrons of different cultural and religious background. Accessing the swimming pool, gym, and adjacent restaurant two floors beneath the lobby, special elevators took guests directly from their rooms to the lower levels, thus avoiding embarrassing encounters, in particular those between "indecent infidel females" and "decent people." Of course, from the windows above the swimming pool, it was entirely possible to view the array of "indecent infidel females" sunbathing. Proof temptation can be too strong for even the most pious, it was not unusual to glimpse the discrete use of high-powered binoculars from the balconies. Between the pool and the beach, a large palm garden containing multitude of decorative shrubs and multicolored flowers was impeccably and permanently manicured by an army of grounds-keepers.
After serving himself at the buffet, Zeno sat down in front of Martina. Her hair tied in a orchid colored ribbon, the perfect oval of her face suffused with a welcoming smile. Without so much as a "good morning," Zeno launched into the topic preoccupying him.
"I've tried to locate Ms. Vassileva through the concierge," he said in exasperation, "but they maintain they don't have anyone under that name registered here."
"Well, good morning to you too Zeno." said Martina, half amused, half annoyed. "And why is it you wanted to see her?" she asked, surprised by the slight trembling of her voice and hoping he wouldn't notice. She raised a cup to her lips, and sipped the hot liquid.
Zeno, suddenly slightly embarrassed, mumbled, "It's just...well, I was going to send her some roses...and..."
When Zeno finally emerged from his room and joined her for breakfast in the restaurant beside the swimming pool, she was ready to go to the beach.
One of the most luxurious hotels in the world, the Al Bustan, boasted not only an exotic, cooled swimming pool, but a magnificent private beach. The architects employed a concept known as vertical separation to avoid conflicts between patrons of different cultural and religious background. Accessing the swimming pool, gym, and adjacent restaurant two floors beneath the lobby, special elevators took guests directly from their rooms to the lower levels, thus avoiding embarrassing encounters, in particular those between "indecent infidel females" and "decent people." Of course, from the windows above the swimming pool, it was entirely possible to view the array of "indecent infidel females" sunbathing. Proof temptation can be too strong for even the most pious, it was not unusual to glimpse the discrete use of high-powered binoculars from the balconies. Between the pool and the beach, a large palm garden containing multitude of decorative shrubs and multicolored flowers was impeccably and permanently manicured by an army of grounds-keepers.
After serving himself at the buffet, Zeno sat down in front of Martina. Her hair tied in a orchid colored ribbon, the perfect oval of her face suffused with a welcoming smile. Without so much as a "good morning," Zeno launched into the topic preoccupying him.
"I've tried to locate Ms. Vassileva through the concierge," he said in exasperation, "but they maintain they don't have anyone under that name registered here."
"Well, good morning to you too Zeno." said Martina, half amused, half annoyed. "And why is it you wanted to see her?" she asked, surprised by the slight trembling of her voice and hoping he wouldn't notice. She raised a cup to her lips, and sipped the hot liquid.
Zeno, suddenly slightly embarrassed, mumbled, "It's just...well, I was going to send her some roses...and..."
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Book One
The Santucci Brothers Trilogy, 1999, F. Oboni
