friend Margarita fortunately told me that you would be giving a concert here,” Islikhanov says. “So of course I came. I think you have met Margarita?”
“Yes,” she says, “I think she mentioned … Do you live in Sofia, then?”
“No, no,” he says, and makes a self-deprecating gesture with his hands, as if to say it is of no interest where he lives, and it’s difficult to explain. “I am here in transit.”
The ambassadress excuses herself. Islikhanov pauses, as if uncertain whether to go on, whether more information from him would be welcome. “I travel a lot, you see,” he says.
She looks at him queryingly. “It’s because of my job,” he clarifies. “As a representative of the Chechen government.”
She must look baffled, because he adds, “I thought perhaps Margarita told you. Or perhaps Mr. McElvoy.”
“No,” she says, trying to recall whether anything had been said about Chechnya. “They didn’t.”
She sees a quaver of surprise, or annoyance on his face, but it disappears quickly. “No reason they should have,” he says urbanely. “No reason why it should be of interest. It is just one of those … trouble spots. You may know that my country has a lot of problems.”
She nods, uncertainly. She’s seen images of a ruined city on television, and refugees moving among the rubble of buildings and abandoned streets. She has a sense it has been going on for a long time, whatever it is. A war against the Russians, but she doesn’t know why or for what. One of the remote, blurry horrors.
Islikhanov is watching her closely. “No reason you should know very much,” he repeats. “It’s not as though Chechnya is of any … importance. Except of course to us. To us, it is of the greatest importance. But to the rest of the world, if I may say so, we’re just one of those … hellish places.” His voice has migrated from polite irony to a darker sarcasm. Then he spreads his palms again, in a gesture of humorous resignation. She notices that his hands are surprisingly long-fingered and delicate. He has a narrow, olive-skinned face. He speaks very good, British-accented English. She wonders why.
“But you don’t live in Chechnya?” she begins, and doesn’t know how to complete the sentence.
“No, no,” he leaps in quickly as if to reassure her. “That is out of the question. To tell you the truth, I hardly live anywhere.”
“But …” she begins.
“The only way I can help my country is from here,” he explains. “You may not know that the government of Chechnya doesn’t exist anymore. I mean, the legitimate government, of which I am a representative. So I must represent it from abroad. It is a kind of … virtual situation.”
“And where do you live?”
“Not anywhere, really,” he says urbanely. “I am a sort of non-person. Or an itinerant person. Isn’t that what it is called?”
“Yes,” she says. “Itinerant. That’s how I think of myself … sometimes. Although, of course—” She stops herself short. Her condition undoubtedly cannot be compared to his. Or vice versa. Though he doesn’t look … like anything she’d expect. Not, in any way, a personification of calamity.
“So it is perhaps right that our paths should cross,” he says with emphasis. She half wishes she could end the conversation right there, get away from the peculiar pressure of his attention. Still: she is intrigued. Here is an actual person who has stepped out from behind the news images, from that other, impossiblereality, and he is talking to her in this rather normal way. She is curious, and in some odd way, flattered.
“Is there … fighting going on right now in Chechnya?” she asks, but he waves the question away. “No, I should not bother you with such gloomy matters,” he says. “I should tell you instead what the Chopin Ballade meant to me. In Paris. And the Scherzo this evening.” Someone passes by with refreshments, and Islikhanov indicates he wants his wine glass
“Yes,” she says, “I think she mentioned … Do you live in Sofia, then?”
“No, no,” he says, and makes a self-deprecating gesture with his hands, as if to say it is of no interest where he lives, and it’s difficult to explain. “I am here in transit.”
The ambassadress excuses herself. Islikhanov pauses, as if uncertain whether to go on, whether more information from him would be welcome. “I travel a lot, you see,” he says.
She looks at him queryingly. “It’s because of my job,” he clarifies. “As a representative of the Chechen government.”
She must look baffled, because he adds, “I thought perhaps Margarita told you. Or perhaps Mr. McElvoy.”
“No,” she says, trying to recall whether anything had been said about Chechnya. “They didn’t.”
She sees a quaver of surprise, or annoyance on his face, but it disappears quickly. “No reason they should have,” he says urbanely. “No reason why it should be of interest. It is just one of those … trouble spots. You may know that my country has a lot of problems.”
She nods, uncertainly. She’s seen images of a ruined city on television, and refugees moving among the rubble of buildings and abandoned streets. She has a sense it has been going on for a long time, whatever it is. A war against the Russians, but she doesn’t know why or for what. One of the remote, blurry horrors.
Islikhanov is watching her closely. “No reason you should know very much,” he repeats. “It’s not as though Chechnya is of any … importance. Except of course to us. To us, it is of the greatest importance. But to the rest of the world, if I may say so, we’re just one of those … hellish places.” His voice has migrated from polite irony to a darker sarcasm. Then he spreads his palms again, in a gesture of humorous resignation. She notices that his hands are surprisingly long-fingered and delicate. He has a narrow, olive-skinned face. He speaks very good, British-accented English. She wonders why.
“But you don’t live in Chechnya?” she begins, and doesn’t know how to complete the sentence.
“No, no,” he leaps in quickly as if to reassure her. “That is out of the question. To tell you the truth, I hardly live anywhere.”
“But …” she begins.
“The only way I can help my country is from here,” he explains. “You may not know that the government of Chechnya doesn’t exist anymore. I mean, the legitimate government, of which I am a representative. So I must represent it from abroad. It is a kind of … virtual situation.”
“And where do you live?”
“Not anywhere, really,” he says urbanely. “I am a sort of non-person. Or an itinerant person. Isn’t that what it is called?”
“Yes,” she says. “Itinerant. That’s how I think of myself … sometimes. Although, of course—” She stops herself short. Her condition undoubtedly cannot be compared to his. Or vice versa. Though he doesn’t look … like anything she’d expect. Not, in any way, a personification of calamity.
“So it is perhaps right that our paths should cross,” he says with emphasis. She half wishes she could end the conversation right there, get away from the peculiar pressure of his attention. Still: she is intrigued. Here is an actual person who has stepped out from behind the news images, from that other, impossiblereality, and he is talking to her in this rather normal way. She is curious, and in some odd way, flattered.
“Is there … fighting going on right now in Chechnya?” she asks, but he waves the question away. “No, I should not bother you with such gloomy matters,” he says. “I should tell you instead what the Chopin Ballade meant to me. In Paris. And the Scherzo this evening.” Someone passes by with refreshments, and Islikhanov indicates he wants his wine glass
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