Tragic Triumph

Tragic Triumph

By Sean “Lynx” Alexander

         The cold Armenian night found two lone figures standing outside the small dimly lit bistro. The men were dark complected, wearing dark blue suites of the highest quality silk. One stood medium height, wearing a red fez, its golden tassel hanging to the right side. The other man was short with a heavy build, and short black hair parted on the right side.
         Equidistant sodium street lamps blanketed the street in an eerie yellow glow, illuminating the time worn structures around the restaurant. Shrouded by the veil of night, the Carpathian Mountains made themselves known with a breeze of cold air coming off high peaks. Their frosty breath covered the area in a light fog. The lights of Gyumri diffused through low lying clouds, giving the starless sky a slight glow.
         The shorter man turned to his companion, and with a slight mirth in his voice said, “Come Mikhail, we can't keep them waiting.”
         Mikhail's face lightened, as he checked his wrist watch.
         “We arrived thirty minutes early,” and with a turn of his head said, “They’re probably not even here yet.”
         “There is only one way to find out.” The man gave a chuckle,” All our work has built toward this. Who would have thought you would be so nervous?”
         “That everything we've worked towards has built toward this moment; I would think that YOU would be more nervous.”
         Mikhail turned to regard the man at his side. Through the facade of his jovial demeanor, he could see the ravages of the past few years chiseled into his features. The stress lines in his face making him look older than he really was. Though the night air was cool, a thin sheen of sweat covered his skin. He was more nervous than Mikhail, but he didn't want it to show.
         Mikhail cast a toothy grin, “At the very least we can have some drinks. Sobriety doesn't suit you.”
         Their joint laughter erupted into the quiet night, and with a slap to Mikhail's back the two men entered the restaurant.
         Through the doorway the distressed front of the building fell away into a lavish room. The air hung heavy with the smoke of many exotic tobaccos, creating a mosaic of aromas. Walls of deep crimson surrounded, giving it a dark look. The floor was colored a slightly brighter shade of red giving the effect of emitting its own illumination. Small round tables, adorned with white table cloths, were scattered across the floor. Flickering pinpricks of red light emanated from the glass centerpieces of each table.
         An attendant in a classic server outfit swiftly joined the two newcomers. Quickly confirming their names, the attendant proceeded to guide them to their tables. The group moved through the sea of hushed conversation, sounding like quiet prayers in a cathedral. Reaching the table, both men took their seats. Getting comfortable Mikhail took off his hat and set it on the table. No menus were given, only drinks ordered. Though the room looked like a fine eating establishment, it was truly a place of commerce. Deals were being made at each table and money changing hands.
         Fifteen minutes passed before the awaited party arrived. Reaching the table, the newcomers bowed slightly before taking their seats. The new men were similarly dressed in quality gray suits. Both men were slim, dark, with small well groomed mustaches. One was carrying a small case that he tucked under his chair. As they sat, Mikhail gave a Turkish greeting, prompting smiles from the two men.
         “Please Mikhail, let’s speak Russian. While the effort is appreciated, you need a few more lessons.” Chuckles sounded from around the table.
         “So Aram, how are you holding up?”
         “As a trapeze artist,” Mikhail's companion responded. The newcomer grinned, gaving a small nod.
“I don't believe either of you have met my business partner. This is Kemal.”
         Mikhail and Aram took turns shaking the man’s hand.
After the pleasantries were complete, Aram’s face became somber.
“So Mustafa, have you looked over our proposal?”
         Reaching under the table Mustafa retrieved a collection of legal size papers bound with a paper clip. Setting it on the table he returned Aram’s expression.
         “I have, it’s quite ambitious, especially given the bad blood between our two peoples.
         Aram sat as a poker player about to show a winning hand. “Were we politicians it might be a problem, but we are men of business.” Leaning back as if he had won the game, he continued, “We are men who seek profit blind to such obstacles.”
         “Too true. Though there are some finer points which must be discussed before an arrangement can be reached.”
         “Of course, but nothing that can't be worked out I'm sure.”
         The next few hours were spent adding to the low din that permeated the room. Mikhail spoke rarely, answering questions technical in nature. Arman did most of the talking. As the night wore on Arman became increasing agitated. This surprised Mikhail as it seemed the discussion was going better than they both could have hoped. Yet, Arman's earlier clamminess had worsened, and he kept adjusting himself in his seat as if uncomfortable.
         As the conversation came to a close, the Turkish men had a short conversation that ended with a mutual nod. Mustafa leaned across the table towards the men opposite him, “As you say we are only interested in profit, and I see much in our future.”
         Pulling a pen from his breast pocket, Mustafa signed the paperwork with a flourish, and then passed the pen to his partner who did the same. After Arman and Mikhail added their signatures, the paper was binding, and the deal complete. The men stood making a toast to their future good fortune. When the toast complete, Arman leaned over the table bracing himself on his right arm.
         Forcing a pained smile he said, “Excuse me, I must.....” His voice trailed off as he fell to the floor. Mikhail sprang into action almost knocking the table over as he did.
         “Arman!” He screamed breaking the atmosphere, causing all to go silent, “Someone call a doctor!”
         Arman slowly turned his head, looked into Mikhail's eyes, and lifted his hand. Mikhail quickly took his hand, feeling Arman's weakening grip.
         Arman managed a weak smile, “It’s all right brother, most men live their entire lives without realizing their goals. I’ve lived long enough to see ours.”
         “You speak as if you are already dead,” Mikhail desperately gasped. “Help is on the way.”
Again he frantically screamed, “Get a doctor!”
         Arman's grip loosened in Mikhail’s hand, and life left his brown eyes. Mikhail tried in vain to revive his brother with CPR, but the futility of his frenzied efforts became clear. Finally realizing he had lost his brother, he reached into his pocket and pulled out two coins. Tears ran down his cheeks as he reached out with a trembling hand and closed the dead man's eyes.
         With a slight smile he said in an uneven voice, “As shrewd as you are, you can make a fortune for us on the other side with these.” He placed a coin on each eye, and his chuckle deteriorated into a stifled whimper.

                             The End.


This is an original work and may not be distributed without the authors consent.