Twenty-Nine Cozy Bears

15

Tehran, Iran International Airport

Their aircraft was guided off the runway to a large hanger. The plane would not be going inside the hanger, the plane was too large, but the lumber found a good home inside.

The man had said he did not remember his dreams, but that was just to end the conversation. He had no intention of discussing a dream, any dream but especially a dream such as that one, with Alek. Alek was a good man and a fierce friend, but there were types of ammunition you simply did not give him access to. Not if you did not want him to commit war crimes both large and small on your personhood. And the abandon he used in his villainy for the sake of a smile or a laugh broke all limits of human consumption.

There is a part of us when we are children, that sees the weakness in others with surgical precision and narrows our cruelty to the finest edge in the exact shape for that exposed wound. Then inserts the knife at an optimum time for the brightest response. Cringe moments when we remember them. As we grew we figured out that kind of thinking got you beat up, unpicked, on the sidelines, and ostracized if pushed to far. Alek's did not. His part didn't mature. It never figured it out. He can still cut with that scalpel. You don't tell someone like that, your dreams.

His experience had been a dream, and not even one of Deja Vu, he decided as he watched from the open hanger bay door a large RV bus coming toward them. A cursory glance about the area proved their group was the destination of the luxury bus. Nothing like the dream. No three pickup trucks with riflemen in the back. Just a large luxury transport for visiting guests of the state of Iran. The sight of the RV, even though it proved to be a wunderkind of its species, put a dollop of disappointment in his gut.

He did not recall all of the details of the dream, but he did recall amazement within. He remembered the three pickup trucks. And three women, in veiled outfits. Not hijab, more like chador. Two of them wore theirs with the veil up, but one had her face presented... was there something about her? Did she say anything? Maybe ... she.... no — nothing. He could not remember anything else. Just a feeling. A good one. It was like the feeling of the Persian sunlight on the back of his hand. They were inside the shade of the hanger right now, but when they walked over from the cargo plane out on the slabs of concrete it felt amazing on his skin.

It was not hot. In fact it was comfortable. The brightness, everywhere, charging up everything, ambushed him. The sunlight felt clean. Which would seem to follow that the Moscow light felt dirty, which was not the case. It was light. Russian light. It sufficed. But it did not feel like Persian light. The greens, which he could find in all directions looking down at the city from above, were vigorous and vibrant. The blue of the sky radiating; bringing to life ideas of the empyrean.

The RV bus parked outside the bay door. After a moment the side door on the other side of the bus from where the men stood waiting with his team, opened up. Feet pattered down the short metal stairs, and soon after, three young women appeared from around the front corner. All three of them wore hijab, with their faces exposed. They also wore sharply tailored and fashioned Army uniforms. No, not regular Army. These were part of the Islamic Revolutionary Army Corps. A section he recognized the insignias of but one he knew little about, called Basij. A Persian word for mobilization. But they also incorporated a new insignia, which he was not sure about, but appeared to represent a specialized grouping.

They each had guns on them, side arms.

Following them down the stairs and coming into view for a moment, two IRACs with AK-47s followed but then turned their attention to outside of the hanger. That is more like it, the man thought. Those are special forces. 

"Здравствуйте," said one of the women, offering a very formal Russian greeting of acknowledgement and respect. 

"As-salamu alaykum" replied Alek, who then performed a courtly bow of subtle elegance and gratitude. "Please, let us practice our Persian while we are here. It would be considered a great favor. Though your Russian is very good."

The three of them pivoted with wide eyes of wonder, and their fingers covering their lips. The man, and Luca were not impressed. This was often the result, particularly from women, occasionally from men, when Alek, took stage.' And it often did not need much more than the sound of his voice.

Alek, unaffected by their spectacle, possessed a Russian accent that somehow transformed a foreign tongue into something riveting and irresistible. In German, they deemed him divine; in Nordic, his presence was particularly savored. Among the French, he failed to captivate the male contingent, yet females turned spitefully drawn. Factor in his linguistic mastery, the flourish of his bow, and behold the ensuing reactions. It was, as they say in America, down to a science—but being Russian, it truly was a science. Because in Russia, the science understands you. Alek was good for a number of similar lines of humor, and sometimes he was kidding.

"I understand," Alek continued in Persian, addressing their wonder, "It's like witnessing the monkey speak, is it not?" He even used contractions and slid the R's.

"Excuse me," the woman who addressed him said, blushing slightly about her reaction, as if it were a burp, and gathered herself together. "Of course," she says in Persian, "we can converse in Persian. But please, only if you are certain of the language. We do not want to have a misunderstanding about restricted areas or the local laws. This would not be wise or desired by anyone."

"I believe I can recognize when I should ask for clarification," Alek said, "Captain Luca Manchini speaks perfect Persian, as it was a cradle language for him. The Major would probably benefit from being able to speak some of our language and perhaps a helper at hand for translation."