City of Winds
By Ali Zarbali
Baku lies in front of my eyes again with its insatiable appetite for skyscrapers and oppressive southern winds, soon to be replaced by violent northern ones. Funnily, only now does it makes sense to me why Baku is called the city of winds. Today too the same scenario repeats: I get lost in the labyrinth of alleys of Old Town; the wind misguides the reptilian slow-motioned inhabitants and visitors with each step from the large squares into the shrinking narrow streets. I, with an empty stomach, roam around the medieval Baku Fortress before deciding to return to “Sahil” boulevard.
Oil platforms erected in the Caspian are like fetuses dozing and being nourished in placenta. It doesn’t calm me down; not the oriental soul of the city, not the vast Caspian, nothing. No, there is nothing wrong with this place, I just have a hard time soothing the disturbing visions of a dead friend in the living memory. And more, when you are on a hunger strike, you don’t need much to get hysterical; I remember how I loved being under the Sun – now, however, even occasional rays of sunlight irritate me. I imagine dismantling the Sun and quenching it in the unhurried dirty waters of the Caspian. I light a cigarette, my last one, and start observing people. As I inhale the smoke, a sharp abdominal pain bends me over. This is what happens after almost a week of starvation… A teenager walks past whistling and singing off-key, an old woman with cellophane bags makes a face at me for no reason, a child falls down from his tricycle and doesn’t cry, a group of girls stops next to me with big shopping bags talking simultaneously and nodding heads impatiently.
I finally find some energy to stroll towards the “28th May” metro station. My belly is sucked inward. It is still unbelievable – I am legitimately down and out. Why am I surprised? I am actually surprised to be surprised. No, nothing surprises me anymore.
My dear friend… Those words still echo in my ears… your visions haunt me day and night. “Ramin has died.” What did I just hear? What does that even mean? What do you mean that he died?
I arrive at the entrance of the metro station. I look around before entering. There is a passive competition for the shaded spots. Apparently, today it is not only me who doesn’t like the Sun. I check my pockets to buy a single pass. As soon as I approach the vending machine, I change my mind. I am not going anywhere. Where would I go anyway? At least it is cool inside and here I can survive the frustrating hot winds.
For a while, I linger inside the station, listening to the mild rumbling and chugging of arriving and departing trains. Hunger and thirst finally have seized me. After all, isn’t it what I have been aiming for? What would Ramin tell me if he saw me like this? He would be really mad at me. What is this childish protest? He would say. Yes, this is what he would say, I know him.
I leave the station for the nearest kiosk. Water please, still water. I empty my pocket into my palm and count the coins carefully. I guzzle the bottle in a few seconds, breathless. The weather is getting better unexpectedly; the wind gave up. I start walking back again, towards downtown, to “Nizami” street. As I walk I feel my eyes blacking out.
I find myself lying on a bench on “Nizami” street. I have woken up to tantalizing scents from the restaurants and cafes around. I have an unbearable ache in my temples, in my stomach. The sky is already dark. All decorous lights and fancy chandeliers are glowing on faces. The weather is nice and people flow,coalescing into much denser streams. I become an insignificant stain in the midst of the crowd. As I sit up, I get a strong dizzy feeling, the street starts whirling around me. I am drowning in the sea of faces. I hear laughter from unheard jokes, desperate whispers of unfamiliar lips, trembling tones of confused wrinkles. Voices are mingling and interfering and some grow to be louder and some become inaudible and…
Did you really quit your job and decided to starve yourself to death? What is this childish protest? Ramin would ask me. I am sure he would. But tell me, Ramin, what does it mean to be dead? I switch on my phone. I re-read our texts for the millionth time. I get a terrifying idea; to text him. My fingers immediately become numb. No, I shouldn’t. Why not? A text to a dead man. The fact, the certainty of never being replied. Look at our conversations, he is alive here, he smiles with a colon and brackets, he makes plans for August. Well, it is August already.
I switch off the phone. I think about my first days in Baku, our first days. It is no longer the same place. Ramin brought me here. He taught me life, he made me a man. I don’t have anything to do here anymore.
The wind again starts blowing. The unpredictable winds of Baku. Stop this childish protest, Ramin says, disappointed. He never said that but I know he would now. I pour the clinking coins into my palm and carefully count them. Please, my dear, don’t be mad at me, I will eat something.
*
Ali Zarbali was born in Azerbaijan and currently lives in Budapest, Hungary. His stories have recently appeared in Maudlin House, New World Writing, Gone lawn, The Lumiere Review, and Flash Boulevard, among others. You can find him on Twitter @AliZarbali.