"Let's talk about less depressing things," she said when the waiters left us alone, squeezing a wedge of lemon into her iced tea. "You'd be disappointed to hear that Lucky Strikes was shut down."
"Oh come on...that is depressing," I said with mock seriousness. "Though I heard this already this morning...There goes my social life." On the upside, I thought, that since this was where I would always see Yulia, I wouldn't have to worry about the awkwardness of running into her again. Besides the Lucky Strikes, our lives never really intersected.
"The whole district is now Gulnora's turf," she explained and she knew, as she lived right next to the Lucky Strikes, though she never went. "She's opened a nightclub down the street, and all these new boutiques are going up. They're huge, no one ever goes in them, and they're full of last season's Dolce & Gabbana."
She paused for me to chime in what we would normally assume in such a situation. "Money laundering," I said rolling my eyes. The greed and venality was simply a glaring fact of life in the city. All the buildings were falling apart. The few stores around had practically nothing in them, except cheap Chinese goods. Who needed these big empty stores with luxury goods that no honest person in Tashkent could afford? Only a money launderer.
"And they all have a name with "elite" in them. Elite shoes, elite this, elite that."
"Since when was elite such a good thing?" I mused aloud. It was a cultural difference. Elitism had a lot going for it here. Our American democratic values seemed sort of quaint and naive in contrast with the local thinking.
"Also, there's a new decree out that all nightclubs are supposed to close at midnight. Naturally, hers is exempted." Everything here was monopolized. Even nightlife.
"I guess I'll be staying in on Saturday nights, drinking alone. What else can I do?"
"Don't ask me. I'm a married lady," she sucked on her cigarette. "I'm not supposed to even leave the house anymore. But, I did hear that if you call this one DJ there -- he can tell you where he sets up this kind of floating party. Apparently, last week he held one in the lobby of the Real Cinema house, but the police came at about 2 to break it up."
"Thanks for the tip." I thought, maybe I was getting too old for this kind of partying. It was pretty harmless. I didn't drink much, just danced and talked with people. Sometimes flirted. Only with Yulia did it ever get beyond that. But all in all, Lucky Strikes was something about the life here that was very charming, like Paris in the 20's, this sort of youthful, bohemian, and free space; especially within the restrictive environment in Tashkent. "How do you know this stuff?"
"I talked with my district policeman. Nice enough guy, always talks with me when I'm walking the dog."
We saw two other familiar expatriates, Alyssa and Susie, walking in. All expatriates, for the most part were familiar to us. There weren't that many expatriates in Tashkent. A few hundred perhaps, not more. It was easy to know almost everyone by name, their profession, a few personal details, some gossip. They were also in their bathingsuits and taking a very civilized lunchbreak from work like us. They were both in their mid-to-late thirties, were both lawyers, and seemed to be a part of a social circle of older expatriates involved in businesses or the diplomatic corps that mostly clung together, mainly by circumstance -- they couldn't speak any of the local languages and therefore, were pretty much restricted to a circle of other expatriates, their translators, and some English speaking local colleagues. They were also a bit of a bored bunch...probably much in the same way that Henrietta and I were, but most likely it was because their jobs were mostly babysitting small representative offices that had very little going on, representing very few companies in Uzbekistan, waiting endlessly for the economy to free up and more activity happening. But, after some time, like us, they came to know that things were probably not going to change. Things always remained the same.
For many of them, living overseas, I suppose, was this "roughing it" kind of adventure, living out in this hardship post, doing without many things. But you could find them often enough sitting by the poolside at hotels, going on shopping excursions, and spending their time atother foreigner-friendly spots, where pretty much only foreigners congregated, since they were too expensive for most locals. Living in this rarefied environment, they often had no idea what at all was going on in the country and they were always glad to include folks like me and Henrietta, as we could translate for them, or fill them in on our reputed "on the ground" knowledge of what was going on in the country, misguided as that idea might be, since we were a bit more attuned to what was happening, spoke to "real" people, watched the miserable local TV and read its absurd press. And, they seemed to be amused by whatever we reported to them.
We invited them to join us, and just as they sat down, Alyssa said that she would really like us to come to a party she would have at her house over the weekend, to welcome her friend who had just moved to Tashkent. And then she turned to me, and said, I'd really like you to meet my friend. I smiled and said, "sure thing."
At this point, it was the end of mine and Henrietta's chatter about our personal problems that we tried to let circulate in the orbit of the expatriate circle, and so the conversation turned to more typical expatriate talk, mostly about shopping. We talked about where to buy fine Uzbek ceramic crafts. There was a master ceramicist and his son, who held small exhibitions of their work, for foreigners, usually at the palatial homes of these foreigners, and where they sold the work for hard currency prices. Also, we talked about the carpet seller, who sold hundred year old silk woven carpets from Samarkand and Bukhara for $400. Today, he would be in the lobby of this very hotel to sell his latest treasures. And, we talked about the tailor who knew how to tastefully use some of the local fabrics into professional tailored suits, but he took his time; sometimes you wouldn't hear from him for months, and then he'd call you when he was ready to receive you for your next fitting. Henrietta looked over at me once or twice and winked at me over the course of the next thirty minutes or so while we endured this light and shallow, yet pleasant conversation. My phone rang again, it was Yulia, and I told the group that it was my office, and that this was a signal that I needed to go.
Henrietta walked me to the lobby. "I wonder who this 'friend' is," she said coyly. "I'll call you later."