5.2 Valley of Flowers

As the car rolled up the slope of the mountain, Tyler caught the glow of the sun behind the clouds in his eyes. He could see the ground covered of a thin layer of snow behind the shading foliage. Further up on the right, he caught a glimpse of the towers of the chairlift and he read it somewhere that this resort had only one ropeway going up to the mountain top. Few hundred metres from his hotel and two hundred metres up the slope, Rusadan Ski Resort was located 2000 metres above sea level.

Grigor drove the car through the porte-cochere in front of the hotel entrance on a paved path to stop by a large wooden pavilion annexed to the hotel building at the far end.

Tyler climbed down into a shedding cool breeze and looked around. This three-storey building contained a hundred rooms and balconies with architectural details overlooking an Italian garden in the courtyard. It widened around the corner by the pavilion which was a large log tavern with a wooden deck patio and glass panels fitted in square frames around the cabin. There stood a roofed stage by the berm and a stream flowed behind the hotel building. This bar faced west with a view of the beautiful landscape around with fountains and pergolas erected in the courtyard. There were low coffee tables arranged on the patio deck.

“Mr Salazar will meet you at the bar. You may go in, Mr Friesen,” said the driver, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Thanks, Grigor,” returned Tyler and entered the bar. 15:35 on his watch.

It was a large shelter, a dark interior, with a low ceiling and all the walls, windows, floor and the counter finished in wood. And that round counter even served the outdoors by the rear side. There were two dozen people seated around the tables clad in green. In the half light, he couldn’t make most of their faces. In the middle, there stood a huge furnace of a fireplace. An alcove opened its way into the main building of the hotel which was highly decorated and served as a ballroom. There stood a stage carpeted in blue at the far end in the depths of the hotel, arranged with chairs and instruments where the famous violinist would perform.

A tall man rose from the dark and approached with his fists clenched which was habitual to him as he held back from a chronic pain. He wore a blue suit with jewelled cufflinks, rings on his fingers and spreading an intimidating perfume. “Bar’ev! Mr Friesen! I am Salazar.” He was six foot three inches tall and 68 years old.

“How do you do?” uttered Tyler.

“Let’s sit down for a drink!” He extended his arm and shook hands, “I’m a little deaf in the ear.”

They settled by a corner and a waitress attended to pick Tyler’s jacket while Salazar ordered, “Bring some Areni wine. I bet you haven’t tried this wine…comes from Areni village where they have been producing wine for a century. And if you haven’t had lunch, you can order here because the restaurant will be closed by now. Mr Friesen, I understand you are a writer.”

“That’s right,” said Tyler squinting at the menu that the waitress placed before him.

Salazar intervened hastily to help him overcome with the scripts in Armenian, Russian and other foreign languages, “Khorovats. A meat dish and a side plate with vegetables served with lavash flatbread.”

“I’ll try this,” nodded Tyler.

“Put this on the house,” he told the waitress and continued, “I’m called for a concert tonight. I’ll be playing here for a request from some Arab guests. We have a lot of Arabs, Russians, Europeans, Hispanics. The season is over and occupancy has fallen by a half but you can still find snow in the mountain and they keep coming to ski. Some Russians at the tables have already noticed you. I thought it’s better to book you at the hotel where mostly Europeans would stay.”

“Thanks. That’s a nice place.”

“We are pro-Russian,” he spoke in a deep voice, “sometimes happy, sometimes not. You probably noticed the industrialising in the area as you travelled by train. Good for the people and they are growing in numbers in Hrazdan turning it into a city. This is a peaceful resort to spend summer…”

He stopped as the waitress arrived with a jar of wine and poured glasses for them.

“Here’s for you!” Salazar took a toast.

“And for you!” clicked Tyler with his glass.

“They come from Erevan and around the world as far from Argentina. Russian government promised us that this town would remain in its natural habitat and a ski resort in winter. We have a casino here, a sauna and a bowling alley.” He ran a hand on his meticulous hair and brushed his neatly trimmed beard, “To get to your point, I understand you’re after a consignment from Georgia. I have certain sources to apprise. This operation is carried out by voski miners in the Sevan Lake. A white Albatross, a Grumman flying boat, denoting an Iran Flag flies from the Gilan region in the Caspian Sea, probably operated by Tehran, I don’t know. American flights cannot operate in this region but Iranians do. That’s about all I know. If you want to go to the lake district, that can be arranged but I insist, if you may allow me to say, take your time.”

“Of course,” reacted Tyler, “I don’t intend to take any action now. I don’t know where to start. Honestly, I’m empty-handed. I have a feeling I should go to Georgia. In that case, I must stay here to do my writings and I think this is a very ideal place for it. I have no plan.”

“I was born in Moscow,” said Salazar in order not to terminate their conversation, “My father was teaching music at Moscow Conservatory. Then one day, I was five or six, I dropped a beautiful Bohemian vase to smash it on the floor. A rare ancient piece and I was poised to drop it just to listen to the sound it makes when it breaks. My father wasn’t happy with that. He took me to St Clement’s Church as a bell ringer where I began to grow a little deaf. My ancestors were Jews. My grandfather converted to the state religion which was Christianity. I joined the music school and learned wind instruments, piano and strings. I was chosen among a bunch of boys to go to America. I was seventeen, not too keen to go but excited.

“We arrived in New York before the war. We can hardly speak the language but I saw a very different city. I grew up in the Zamoskvoretsky area…all the lanes were quiet, misty and empty, except for the bells that clanged like melting alloy. Fourteen years in New York, I thought about my love of life who died in Transcarpathian where her family moved while she was ill.

“I didn’t return to Moscow. It was then Stalin era. I made it to Warsaw where I joined the orchestra and we even toured to places like Paris, Munich, Vienna…”

The waitress arrived with Tyler’s lunch. Salazar concluded, “Mr Friesen, I’ll leave you to have your meal. I have to do a few things to set for this evening’s farewell show. Do please be here. We start at eight-thirty.”

Tyler rose to his feet, “I’m taken aback with your fascinating story. I enjoyed. Thank you, Mr Salazar.”

“My pleasure!”