Ottoman Khaif
15-06-2007, 06:13
(CLOSED RP)
Çırağan Palace, Istanbul, Turkey, Khailfah al Muslimeen
It was just another evening at the five star hotel known as the Çırağan Palace, and like every day the main ballroom was in use. Today’s occasion was the birthday party of Serafeim Leonidas, the son of Ioannis Leonidas who was the owner of a cargo shipbuilding company valued at 8 billion dinars. All the guests at the gathering were either affluent or somehow connected to Ioannis in one way or another, a composition of Greeks, Greco-Latins, Germans, Armenians, and Jews for the most part.
The party was going well; guests were coming in with gifts in hand. It was just another typical party for the non-Muslim groups of KLM, nothing out of the norm for now. Everyone was engrossed in drinking especially expensive wine and enjoying their five star meals. For Serafeim Leonidas it was just another mundane party his father was throwing in his honor, he would rather be back in Athens studying or reading some books on the subject of his major, history…but he knew his father was trying to make up for not being there when he was kid. Now sitting and watching people enjoy themselves he wondered what his father meant when he said he had something special arranged for him.
Little did he know that at that very moment that something special was gliding towards him with a Cosmopolitan in her hand…
Christine was an absolutely gorgeous creature. Her fair and undulating tresses were a glamorous silvery-blonde in color, exquisitely fine and of a feathery softness. Flowing down her neck in a tumble of wavy curls and tendrils, her lovely mane appeared unexampled in its dazzling luxuriance. Though worn long it was fashionably styled, threaded with delicate silk ribbons and ornamented with a pretty garland of tulip petals. She had applied light touches of an attractive, pleasantly perfumed face powder to her fine features and painted her lips a bright sensual red.
The Amestrian wore a long, close-fitting bustier gown in a light, thin silk crêpe-back satin, its diaphanous fabric shimmering attractively in an assortment of pale cerulean blues and draped elegantly at the sides in a series of pretty, soft folds. The latest creation from Andúrien Aiglôth, an extremely popular and award-winning Xirniumite fashion house; Christine’s dress was stylishly feminine and sophisticated in style, its mischievously slinky, light-hearted and innocent form emphasizing grace, voluptuousness and classical simplicity.
The strapless, figure-revealing gown had a flowing floor-length skirt, its exquisitely glossy, azure-colored fabric pooling gorgeously around Christine’s dainty stiletto heeled shoes. A low-cut décolletage was, of course, a prominent element of the couture dress, playfully displaying Christine’s lovely bosom whilst fitting snuggly around her slender waist. Jewelry was tastefully worn to complement Christine’s natural beauty and the sumptuousness of her gown. Partly obscured behind her wavy coiffure was a pair of splendid heart-shaped sapphire earrings.
Though body-clinging rather than loose, the garment was mercifully unencumbered by the lavish over-decoration and rigid restriction that plagued some of the world’s more famous designs, and Christine had found wiggling into the dress and out of it a remarkably easy affair. It was as if they had designed the dress exclusively for her, anticipating and accommodating her every need.
Christine quietly snuck up behind the ever bored and distracted Serafeim, bent over, and, before he could notice her, lightly tapped him on the shoulder.
“♥And you must be the man of the hour,♥” she whispered to him in her soft sexy little girls voice.
Serafeim was about to drink his fourth glass of wine, when he felt a tap on his shoulder, heard Christine’s breathy whisper, and quickly turned to see who was speaking to him. He couldn’t believe his eyes, “this can’t be for real” he thought to himself… He just couldn’t take his eyes off her body, it was the image of perfection (or was it the alcohol talking)… He just couldn’t believe his eyes; this had to be too good to be true. Serafeim quickly got out of his seat to make a better introduction and to get a better look at her…
“♥Hi, I’m Christine. Christine Boleyn.♥”
“Hello, I’m Serafeim. Nice to meet you Christin-”
“♥Call me Christi.♥”
He smiled at that and said “Gladly...please allow me.” He then pulled a chair out for her. In the background all his “friends” just looked on in a state of shock and envy…they couldn’t believe that the bloody bookworm had such a hot date (or so they thought).
“♥Why thank you, ♥” she purred.
Christi slid into her chair and took a sip of her Cosmo. She did not seem to notice the envious looks being directed at her and kept her gaze firmly on Serafeim, giving the young man a warm smile that just melted him inside.
“♥So, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself birthday boy...? ♥”
”Well...umm….”
Serafeim tried to focus but every time he was about to say something coherent Christine would wiggle, it was just too distracting.
“I am…umm…”
Christine giggled.
"Well…I am just your average college student who has a passionate love for all things related to History and now I am just trying to enjoy this party here and now, so what’s your role in this grand party?" He was still rather clueless about her role…for now. "Could you tell me little about yourself?"
“I don’t really have a role…” Christi said, fishing a toasted almond out of a nearby bowl of nuts and popping it into her mouth. “Anastasia invited me,” she lied.
“Really, you don’t seem like the type who would be a friend of hers?”
Christine shrugged. “Well, it’s kinda funny how these things work out.”
Serafeim smiled. “Indeed.”
Meanwhile Serafeim’s two cousins, Anastasia and Maria, were in off the distance, getting drunk and making their noticeable impressions on the party. The two sisters were very different from their cousin Serafeim; unlike him they were stuck up and spoiled (Maria to a lesser degree compared to Anastasia). Both sisters wore a rather large amount of makeup, a veritable rainbow of colors; bright blue eye shadow covered their eyelids, bright pink lipstick decorated their mouths, and their eyes were lined with black eyeliner. The two of them had also bleached their hair blonde to the point where it was so obviously fake (laughably so in Anastasia’s case and only slightly less so with Maria).
Anastasia was wearing a short blue, black, and white skirt, a reveling white top, white five inch high heeled shoes, a black belt, and gold hoop earrings; and was busy getting hit on by a used-suit salesman. She mostly had a blank look on her face, nodding and grinning as the salesman spoke and flirted with her, something which didn’t require all that much effort on his part. He just chatted to Anastasia about how she was so clever, sophisticated, and intelligent and she just unthinkingly took it all in, believing the man meant every word he said.
Then there was Maria, who was wearing a red and white striped dress with big red plastic heart earrings and thick red five inch high heels. She was busy chatting with her friends on the subjects of who should not have been invited to the party and how her cousin was such a dork. Their discussion quickly changed when Maria noticed Christine sitting next to Serafeim. She wondered how that bloody nerd had managed to get a date, remarking to her friends, somewhat jokingly, that “He likely paid her to be his date or something…”
Back at Serafeim and Christine’s table…
“I’m at this party to have fun and meet interesting new people. Now, a little about myself…” Christine absently played with a lose lock of her hair, returning the strand to its proper place. “I’m something of a freelance writer-critic. I write poetry and review Amestrian literature for The Dawn, as well as other local papers.”
“What kind of poetry?”
“Gazel’s, Nazm’s, and Habib, the last usually romantic, written in Arabic and Persian for the most part. Care to hear a few sher’s?”
“Sure.”
“Persian or Arabic?”
“I don’t know Persian.”
“Arabic then…”
Christine leaned forward, gently touched Serafeim’s arm, and brought her face close to his. He could smell her sensuous perfume and had a clear view of her wonderful cleavage.
As she whispered into his ear Serafeim became more and more focused on Christine, and everything else seemed to become blurry. He became lost in the sound of her soft voice and the occasional feeling of her warm breath on his ear. As Serafeim listened he found himself stealing glances at her breasts. One of his ‘friends’ called out to him, “Hey, what you two whispering about?” but failed to get a response. If someone had thrown a shoe at Serafeim it was unlikely he would ever have noticed it hitting him.
By the end of the sixth couplet Serafeim had turned red.
Christine drew back and giggled. “That’s one of my personal favorites.” She pouted a little. “The papers will never publish it.”
"I wonder why...?”
Christine smiled. “Besides verse, I like mixed drinks, classical music, particularly the compositions of Claude-Marie Fauré and Aleksander Besnik, the cartoons of Mathieu Chaval…and I’m also fascinated by history.”
"History...really...what kind of history…?" Serafeim asked, his interest aroused more then ever before.
“Eastern History,” Christine answered; a twinkle in her eyes. “Particularly the Balkans, the Caucuses, and what we Amestrians call the Near East; Anadolu, Bayn Nahrayn, le Bilad al Sham, Fars… They’ve always fascinated me, ever since I was a little girl.” She grinned. “I’m something of an Oriental Occidental, it runs in the family. Ever heard of Alexandre Carton Pasha?”
“Alexandre Carton Pasha...heard that name somewhere...” Serafeim searched his memory. “The 19th century General…Al Qirm War, right?”
Christine nodded. Serafeim only knew a little about the famous Amestrian warrior. Alexandre Carton had been a veteran of Leader-King Bradley’s coup and the savage Eastern Rebellion, the latter in which he suffered several grievous wounds. After the rebellion he had retired and traveled East, offering his services as a soldier for hire. With only one arm, one eye, and one foot, the maimed mercenary had impressed the Turks deeply with his cunning, his complete disregard for personal danger, and his willingness to fight duels. Fighting for the Ottoman Empire, he had distinguished himself during the Al Qirm War, winning many victories. After the battle of Kerch, Sultan Abdülmecid I rewarded Carton by appointing him to the posts of Pasha and garrison commander of Tunahisari. It was in Tunahisari, a fortress town along the Black Sea, where Alexandre settled down. He converted to Islam, took three wives, and had many children.
“Distant relation.”
“Really…?”
Christine nodded. “Yeah.”
Off in the distance, at their own table on the other side of the ballroom, sat Ioannis Leonidas and a man in a black suit. As both feasted upon a medium-rare t-bone steak and savored a second glass of expensive Red Wine, they chatted, joked, and observed.
“My how the party is coming to life, eh herr Ioannis?” said the man in black, who appeared to be in his late 30s and early 40s. He had rather light skin, dark brown hair, and was fairly fit.
“Indeed,” answered Ioannis. “It’s all gone pretty well so far, don’t you agree?” He was in his mid 50s and had a touch of gray in his black hair. He was fairly tanned and, despite the grey, still looked young for his age.
“Splendid, just splendid,” the man in black answered, turning his head. As he glanced across the room something caught his attention. The man in black took a sip of his wine, smiled, and then remarked, “My, I wonder who that is sitting next to your son?”
Ioannis followed the man’s gaze. “So do I…” the father then remarked, dryly.
Still smiling, the man in black turned his head to the left. “My...look at that loaded young lady there, lacking in common sense and style...that salesmen sure hit the jackpot...”
Again Ioannis followed the man’s gaze. There was Anastasia, with distant eyes and a little drunken smile, happily stroking the suit salesmen’s chest with her left hand. Her shoulder length hair was teased up to such an extent that it almost looked like snow white cotton candy, in clear contrast with her light brown skin.
“Oh family,” Ioannis muttered, staring at his plate. “Sometimes you just want to do without them…”
Oblivious to the attention they were getting, Christine and Serafeim continued their conversation…
“I’m also a descendent of the celebrated Éliane Damita,” the Amestrian remarked, taking a sip of her Cosmopolitan.
“I’m not familiar with her name?”
“Not many people are, she was a figure of local history, a traveler. She grew up a member of a very well off petit propriétaire family, and, owing to her education, became a State school teacher. Now this was during the First Stratocracy, when the whole country was being run along military lines, when all civil servants were members of the Military and were required to wear Army uniforms, obey military discipline, and be physically fit. Éliane rather enjoyed the exertion and the activity required of her, far more then the actual teaching, so she got involved in a reserve force. Then one winter she got sick and her doctor told her that the Mediterranean climate would be better for her health, and he advised her to travel. Albania was obviously not what he had in mind, but that is where Éliane went.”
Serafeim laughed. “Albania?”
Christine nodded. “She explored the country from end to end. At first the Albanians did not quiet know what to make of her, this educated female petit propriétaire soldier who could shoot, fence, and ride with the best of them. So in the end, they decided to make her an honorary man. A local warrior fell for her and they had an affair. When Éliane returned home she was accompanied by a little girl, her daughter Catherine. The whole thing became something of a minor scandal. Undaunted, she went on to explore the whole of the Adriatic coast and revisit Albania. She truly loved that place and its people, but she didn’t much care for there their northern neighbors, the Montenegrins.”
“Why was that?” Serafeim inquired, curious.
“She had a bad experience. While dining with a well regarded noble warrior Éliane took a peak into his personal sack and discovered some of the loot he had amassed from years of raiding; sixty human noses.”
In the background a sinister looking man casually sipped his Olive Martini. He was well dressed, decked out in a roomy and expensive custom tailored blue suit. The man was only in his early 40s, yet for some reason he was completely bald. His tanned face was marked by numerous little scars and from his physique it was clear he regularly worked out at a gym. Everyone kept their distance from him, but he didn’t seem to mind and was apparently content to stand by himself, silently watching the party as it progressed.
Back at Serafeim’s table, Christine had helped herself to a tasty Persian tomato, cucumber, and onion salad.
“This is really good,” she remarked to herself between bites. “I have an older sister who lives in le Biqâ‘Valley. She’s married; her husband is a honeybee farmer. They have a kid and make their living off selling honey and beeswax.”
“My grandfather,” Serafeim began, “Paul Leonidas, was the personal friend and physician to Sultan Mustafa bin Asad during the years of chaos...he fought alongside him when his forces retook Istanbul. He used to tell me all these stories about how he used to play games of chess with Sultan Mustafa during the that time in order to help them both cope with the hurricane of events they had to deal with… They’d always end up debating the next plan of action and what to do afterwards… It was thanks in part to my grandfather’s efforts that the Empire ended direct rule in Rumelia."
“He was involved in the reform period?”
“Yes, the reforms of Rumelia, as they were called, the breaking up of that super region into several state governments, all due to my grandfather efforts. Yet one of the leaders of Greece at the time, a troublemaker by the name of Alexander Karamanlis, decided to take the credit for the pushing of the reforms when he was made governor of Greece. My grandfather didn't take that insult lightly. It was 1959 at the time, and a new law regarding duals was about to come into effect on 1960, New Years Day. He had only one day before the law came into force, so he took a train from Istanbul to Athens, which got delayed so many times that he got there with only 40 minutes before the law came into effect.”
“What happened?” Christine asked, clearly interested.
Serafeim smiled. “He managed to find the governor in 30 minutes and challenge him to a dual. Swords were the weapon of choice and my grandfather managed to kill Karamanlis in 20 minutes. Sultan Mustafa was very displeased with him, as he had to pick some random acceptable Greek from Cyprus and make him the new governor. For my grandfather the end result was the fact he could never step foot in Greece ever again because the Karamanlis family clan swore a vendetta against him... Now days, because of that, he hides out in the Levant. I wonder if he’s met your sister…”
Somewhere, someone dropped a tray of food.
Çırağan Palace, Istanbul, Turkey, Khailfah al Muslimeen
It was just another evening at the five star hotel known as the Çırağan Palace, and like every day the main ballroom was in use. Today’s occasion was the birthday party of Serafeim Leonidas, the son of Ioannis Leonidas who was the owner of a cargo shipbuilding company valued at 8 billion dinars. All the guests at the gathering were either affluent or somehow connected to Ioannis in one way or another, a composition of Greeks, Greco-Latins, Germans, Armenians, and Jews for the most part.
The party was going well; guests were coming in with gifts in hand. It was just another typical party for the non-Muslim groups of KLM, nothing out of the norm for now. Everyone was engrossed in drinking especially expensive wine and enjoying their five star meals. For Serafeim Leonidas it was just another mundane party his father was throwing in his honor, he would rather be back in Athens studying or reading some books on the subject of his major, history…but he knew his father was trying to make up for not being there when he was kid. Now sitting and watching people enjoy themselves he wondered what his father meant when he said he had something special arranged for him.
Little did he know that at that very moment that something special was gliding towards him with a Cosmopolitan in her hand…
Christine was an absolutely gorgeous creature. Her fair and undulating tresses were a glamorous silvery-blonde in color, exquisitely fine and of a feathery softness. Flowing down her neck in a tumble of wavy curls and tendrils, her lovely mane appeared unexampled in its dazzling luxuriance. Though worn long it was fashionably styled, threaded with delicate silk ribbons and ornamented with a pretty garland of tulip petals. She had applied light touches of an attractive, pleasantly perfumed face powder to her fine features and painted her lips a bright sensual red.
The Amestrian wore a long, close-fitting bustier gown in a light, thin silk crêpe-back satin, its diaphanous fabric shimmering attractively in an assortment of pale cerulean blues and draped elegantly at the sides in a series of pretty, soft folds. The latest creation from Andúrien Aiglôth, an extremely popular and award-winning Xirniumite fashion house; Christine’s dress was stylishly feminine and sophisticated in style, its mischievously slinky, light-hearted and innocent form emphasizing grace, voluptuousness and classical simplicity.
The strapless, figure-revealing gown had a flowing floor-length skirt, its exquisitely glossy, azure-colored fabric pooling gorgeously around Christine’s dainty stiletto heeled shoes. A low-cut décolletage was, of course, a prominent element of the couture dress, playfully displaying Christine’s lovely bosom whilst fitting snuggly around her slender waist. Jewelry was tastefully worn to complement Christine’s natural beauty and the sumptuousness of her gown. Partly obscured behind her wavy coiffure was a pair of splendid heart-shaped sapphire earrings.
Though body-clinging rather than loose, the garment was mercifully unencumbered by the lavish over-decoration and rigid restriction that plagued some of the world’s more famous designs, and Christine had found wiggling into the dress and out of it a remarkably easy affair. It was as if they had designed the dress exclusively for her, anticipating and accommodating her every need.
Christine quietly snuck up behind the ever bored and distracted Serafeim, bent over, and, before he could notice her, lightly tapped him on the shoulder.
“♥And you must be the man of the hour,♥” she whispered to him in her soft sexy little girls voice.
Serafeim was about to drink his fourth glass of wine, when he felt a tap on his shoulder, heard Christine’s breathy whisper, and quickly turned to see who was speaking to him. He couldn’t believe his eyes, “this can’t be for real” he thought to himself… He just couldn’t take his eyes off her body, it was the image of perfection (or was it the alcohol talking)… He just couldn’t believe his eyes; this had to be too good to be true. Serafeim quickly got out of his seat to make a better introduction and to get a better look at her…
“♥Hi, I’m Christine. Christine Boleyn.♥”
“Hello, I’m Serafeim. Nice to meet you Christin-”
“♥Call me Christi.♥”
He smiled at that and said “Gladly...please allow me.” He then pulled a chair out for her. In the background all his “friends” just looked on in a state of shock and envy…they couldn’t believe that the bloody bookworm had such a hot date (or so they thought).
“♥Why thank you, ♥” she purred.
Christi slid into her chair and took a sip of her Cosmo. She did not seem to notice the envious looks being directed at her and kept her gaze firmly on Serafeim, giving the young man a warm smile that just melted him inside.
“♥So, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself birthday boy...? ♥”
”Well...umm….”
Serafeim tried to focus but every time he was about to say something coherent Christine would wiggle, it was just too distracting.
“I am…umm…”
Christine giggled.
"Well…I am just your average college student who has a passionate love for all things related to History and now I am just trying to enjoy this party here and now, so what’s your role in this grand party?" He was still rather clueless about her role…for now. "Could you tell me little about yourself?"
“I don’t really have a role…” Christi said, fishing a toasted almond out of a nearby bowl of nuts and popping it into her mouth. “Anastasia invited me,” she lied.
“Really, you don’t seem like the type who would be a friend of hers?”
Christine shrugged. “Well, it’s kinda funny how these things work out.”
Serafeim smiled. “Indeed.”
Meanwhile Serafeim’s two cousins, Anastasia and Maria, were in off the distance, getting drunk and making their noticeable impressions on the party. The two sisters were very different from their cousin Serafeim; unlike him they were stuck up and spoiled (Maria to a lesser degree compared to Anastasia). Both sisters wore a rather large amount of makeup, a veritable rainbow of colors; bright blue eye shadow covered their eyelids, bright pink lipstick decorated their mouths, and their eyes were lined with black eyeliner. The two of them had also bleached their hair blonde to the point where it was so obviously fake (laughably so in Anastasia’s case and only slightly less so with Maria).
Anastasia was wearing a short blue, black, and white skirt, a reveling white top, white five inch high heeled shoes, a black belt, and gold hoop earrings; and was busy getting hit on by a used-suit salesman. She mostly had a blank look on her face, nodding and grinning as the salesman spoke and flirted with her, something which didn’t require all that much effort on his part. He just chatted to Anastasia about how she was so clever, sophisticated, and intelligent and she just unthinkingly took it all in, believing the man meant every word he said.
Then there was Maria, who was wearing a red and white striped dress with big red plastic heart earrings and thick red five inch high heels. She was busy chatting with her friends on the subjects of who should not have been invited to the party and how her cousin was such a dork. Their discussion quickly changed when Maria noticed Christine sitting next to Serafeim. She wondered how that bloody nerd had managed to get a date, remarking to her friends, somewhat jokingly, that “He likely paid her to be his date or something…”
Back at Serafeim and Christine’s table…
“I’m at this party to have fun and meet interesting new people. Now, a little about myself…” Christine absently played with a lose lock of her hair, returning the strand to its proper place. “I’m something of a freelance writer-critic. I write poetry and review Amestrian literature for The Dawn, as well as other local papers.”
“What kind of poetry?”
“Gazel’s, Nazm’s, and Habib, the last usually romantic, written in Arabic and Persian for the most part. Care to hear a few sher’s?”
“Sure.”
“Persian or Arabic?”
“I don’t know Persian.”
“Arabic then…”
Christine leaned forward, gently touched Serafeim’s arm, and brought her face close to his. He could smell her sensuous perfume and had a clear view of her wonderful cleavage.
As she whispered into his ear Serafeim became more and more focused on Christine, and everything else seemed to become blurry. He became lost in the sound of her soft voice and the occasional feeling of her warm breath on his ear. As Serafeim listened he found himself stealing glances at her breasts. One of his ‘friends’ called out to him, “Hey, what you two whispering about?” but failed to get a response. If someone had thrown a shoe at Serafeim it was unlikely he would ever have noticed it hitting him.
By the end of the sixth couplet Serafeim had turned red.
Christine drew back and giggled. “That’s one of my personal favorites.” She pouted a little. “The papers will never publish it.”
"I wonder why...?”
Christine smiled. “Besides verse, I like mixed drinks, classical music, particularly the compositions of Claude-Marie Fauré and Aleksander Besnik, the cartoons of Mathieu Chaval…and I’m also fascinated by history.”
"History...really...what kind of history…?" Serafeim asked, his interest aroused more then ever before.
“Eastern History,” Christine answered; a twinkle in her eyes. “Particularly the Balkans, the Caucuses, and what we Amestrians call the Near East; Anadolu, Bayn Nahrayn, le Bilad al Sham, Fars… They’ve always fascinated me, ever since I was a little girl.” She grinned. “I’m something of an Oriental Occidental, it runs in the family. Ever heard of Alexandre Carton Pasha?”
“Alexandre Carton Pasha...heard that name somewhere...” Serafeim searched his memory. “The 19th century General…Al Qirm War, right?”
Christine nodded. Serafeim only knew a little about the famous Amestrian warrior. Alexandre Carton had been a veteran of Leader-King Bradley’s coup and the savage Eastern Rebellion, the latter in which he suffered several grievous wounds. After the rebellion he had retired and traveled East, offering his services as a soldier for hire. With only one arm, one eye, and one foot, the maimed mercenary had impressed the Turks deeply with his cunning, his complete disregard for personal danger, and his willingness to fight duels. Fighting for the Ottoman Empire, he had distinguished himself during the Al Qirm War, winning many victories. After the battle of Kerch, Sultan Abdülmecid I rewarded Carton by appointing him to the posts of Pasha and garrison commander of Tunahisari. It was in Tunahisari, a fortress town along the Black Sea, where Alexandre settled down. He converted to Islam, took three wives, and had many children.
“Distant relation.”
“Really…?”
Christine nodded. “Yeah.”
Off in the distance, at their own table on the other side of the ballroom, sat Ioannis Leonidas and a man in a black suit. As both feasted upon a medium-rare t-bone steak and savored a second glass of expensive Red Wine, they chatted, joked, and observed.
“My how the party is coming to life, eh herr Ioannis?” said the man in black, who appeared to be in his late 30s and early 40s. He had rather light skin, dark brown hair, and was fairly fit.
“Indeed,” answered Ioannis. “It’s all gone pretty well so far, don’t you agree?” He was in his mid 50s and had a touch of gray in his black hair. He was fairly tanned and, despite the grey, still looked young for his age.
“Splendid, just splendid,” the man in black answered, turning his head. As he glanced across the room something caught his attention. The man in black took a sip of his wine, smiled, and then remarked, “My, I wonder who that is sitting next to your son?”
Ioannis followed the man’s gaze. “So do I…” the father then remarked, dryly.
Still smiling, the man in black turned his head to the left. “My...look at that loaded young lady there, lacking in common sense and style...that salesmen sure hit the jackpot...”
Again Ioannis followed the man’s gaze. There was Anastasia, with distant eyes and a little drunken smile, happily stroking the suit salesmen’s chest with her left hand. Her shoulder length hair was teased up to such an extent that it almost looked like snow white cotton candy, in clear contrast with her light brown skin.
“Oh family,” Ioannis muttered, staring at his plate. “Sometimes you just want to do without them…”
Oblivious to the attention they were getting, Christine and Serafeim continued their conversation…
“I’m also a descendent of the celebrated Éliane Damita,” the Amestrian remarked, taking a sip of her Cosmopolitan.
“I’m not familiar with her name?”
“Not many people are, she was a figure of local history, a traveler. She grew up a member of a very well off petit propriétaire family, and, owing to her education, became a State school teacher. Now this was during the First Stratocracy, when the whole country was being run along military lines, when all civil servants were members of the Military and were required to wear Army uniforms, obey military discipline, and be physically fit. Éliane rather enjoyed the exertion and the activity required of her, far more then the actual teaching, so she got involved in a reserve force. Then one winter she got sick and her doctor told her that the Mediterranean climate would be better for her health, and he advised her to travel. Albania was obviously not what he had in mind, but that is where Éliane went.”
Serafeim laughed. “Albania?”
Christine nodded. “She explored the country from end to end. At first the Albanians did not quiet know what to make of her, this educated female petit propriétaire soldier who could shoot, fence, and ride with the best of them. So in the end, they decided to make her an honorary man. A local warrior fell for her and they had an affair. When Éliane returned home she was accompanied by a little girl, her daughter Catherine. The whole thing became something of a minor scandal. Undaunted, she went on to explore the whole of the Adriatic coast and revisit Albania. She truly loved that place and its people, but she didn’t much care for there their northern neighbors, the Montenegrins.”
“Why was that?” Serafeim inquired, curious.
“She had a bad experience. While dining with a well regarded noble warrior Éliane took a peak into his personal sack and discovered some of the loot he had amassed from years of raiding; sixty human noses.”
In the background a sinister looking man casually sipped his Olive Martini. He was well dressed, decked out in a roomy and expensive custom tailored blue suit. The man was only in his early 40s, yet for some reason he was completely bald. His tanned face was marked by numerous little scars and from his physique it was clear he regularly worked out at a gym. Everyone kept their distance from him, but he didn’t seem to mind and was apparently content to stand by himself, silently watching the party as it progressed.
Back at Serafeim’s table, Christine had helped herself to a tasty Persian tomato, cucumber, and onion salad.
“This is really good,” she remarked to herself between bites. “I have an older sister who lives in le Biqâ‘Valley. She’s married; her husband is a honeybee farmer. They have a kid and make their living off selling honey and beeswax.”
“My grandfather,” Serafeim began, “Paul Leonidas, was the personal friend and physician to Sultan Mustafa bin Asad during the years of chaos...he fought alongside him when his forces retook Istanbul. He used to tell me all these stories about how he used to play games of chess with Sultan Mustafa during the that time in order to help them both cope with the hurricane of events they had to deal with… They’d always end up debating the next plan of action and what to do afterwards… It was thanks in part to my grandfather’s efforts that the Empire ended direct rule in Rumelia."
“He was involved in the reform period?”
“Yes, the reforms of Rumelia, as they were called, the breaking up of that super region into several state governments, all due to my grandfather efforts. Yet one of the leaders of Greece at the time, a troublemaker by the name of Alexander Karamanlis, decided to take the credit for the pushing of the reforms when he was made governor of Greece. My grandfather didn't take that insult lightly. It was 1959 at the time, and a new law regarding duals was about to come into effect on 1960, New Years Day. He had only one day before the law came into force, so he took a train from Istanbul to Athens, which got delayed so many times that he got there with only 40 minutes before the law came into effect.”
“What happened?” Christine asked, clearly interested.
Serafeim smiled. “He managed to find the governor in 30 minutes and challenge him to a dual. Swords were the weapon of choice and my grandfather managed to kill Karamanlis in 20 minutes. Sultan Mustafa was very displeased with him, as he had to pick some random acceptable Greek from Cyprus and make him the new governor. For my grandfather the end result was the fact he could never step foot in Greece ever again because the Karamanlis family clan swore a vendetta against him... Now days, because of that, he hides out in the Levant. I wonder if he’s met your sister…”
Somewhere, someone dropped a tray of food.