#bakri

You’re on the radio. They want to see your face.

They wanted to put a personality to their imaginations while craning around the speakers listening in on Khlee's fights.

It wasn’t all bad, these evenings spent among the upper echelon, Khlee supposed. The boxer got to gaze at the trees and the big, blue water. The trees, by God, were enormous. Hard to imagine that this was not all that far from Manhattan. The irony hit stronger than the bootlegged alcohol – folks were far more authentic in Khlee’s side of Harlem compared to the company kept in these lush, manicured forests. 

Out here in West Egg, there was nothing more artificial than all the buildings and streets and concrete combined besides the people. If you wanted real trees, and real drink, and real china, and real crystal glasses, it came with a price tag. There had to be a price these days. 

Khlee took a sip from the fine drink handed to them, anchoring themself in the shadows of the darkest green silhouettes that castled the property of the Great Jay Gatsby. 

“You’ve met Gatsby. Certainly, you have by now. Tell us what he’s like, Khlee. They hardly say anything in the papers.”

Clearing their throat, they said, “Can’t say I have. No.”

The man of the hour. Fake or hiding like the rest of this company. Whether thrill-chasing, drinking, or dancing under the lights in this hidden island of bombastic elites – that’s who Jay Gatbsy was. Khlee was sure of it.

It wasn’t hard to imagine because even the humble boxer was not who they said they were. Not entirely at least. 

But in crisp, straight-legged cream fabrics and smart buttons and the right shoes, who would know the difference? No one questioned the high rasp in their voice or their general unease when swamped by the visiting fraternities or the young uniformed naval officers. Always wanting to crowd and shake hands, clap the athlete’s back, and breathe their boozey, hot-blooded breath in Khlee’s face as they congratulated them on their last fight.

Smile. Flirt. Drink. Be merry.

You’re on the radio, by God!

Khlee set aside the empty glass before someone else bumped into them and made them drop it in the pool.

More guests had arrived. The warm bodies crowded closer together, sweaty and wine-blushed; the trees felt farther away. 

Movie starlets filed in. Tall and beaming and gorgeous, yes. Khlee paused to have a look at them. Sweeping in with their entourages, coattails and fringes and sparkling fabrics dragging behind them. Gowns that were only meant to be worn once for sure. 

Names came with the faces, popping off in Khlee’s head in automation. 

Tazian.

Armenian old money. An heiress? Khlee had seen her before. Life of the party – she took that role for herself the moment she walked in. As if it already belonged to her. And she didn’t have to share it precisely because it was hers, but she did anyway. This Armenian princess dusted down in red gem finery was more than generous with her vivacity. Those shimmering, shifting reds brought gifts and unforgettable smiles.

To the naked eye, the Tazian socialite’s entourage blended seamlessly into the background. But Khlee, who had eyes sharp enough to appreciate the green in the black umbrella foliage haunting the manor, knew exactly which of the entourage’s company they wanted to keep that evening.

“Wie geht es dir?” Khlee said, so polite like their Papa had taught them. And speaking as clearly as they could.

The suited man-of-sorts occupying the black iron bench did not look back. Though he replied without thinking.

“Es geht.”

It goes.

He spoke in the northern, less foggy dialect than the boxer was used to. Khlee felt the sentiment under those words.

It is a night and I am here. This is my work.

Khlee sat down, thought about offering the other a drink when they noticed that he was holding onto the Tazian heiress’s gloves. 

“Arbeit oder Spiel?” Khlee asked gently, making way for some kind of conversation.

Finally, the bodyguard turned, his wide earrings catching light like the champagne in the flutes spread atop every flat surface. Recognition flickered in his brown, distorted eyes.

“Khlee von Heine,” he said, his tone shifting out of the cold greeting from before.

All Khlee knew about Tazian’s chaperone was that he came from Germany, and before that, Turkey. At least that’s the direction the West Egg gossip had taken anyway. 

“Von Heine,” he said again, mangling the gloves instead of sticking his hand out for Khlee to shake. “You were in the papers.” He swallowed. “And on the radio.”

Khlee leaned back a little, towards him a little too.

“Do you box?”

Not what is your name. Nor do you know Gatsby.

But rather, Do you play my game? Can we play together sometime? Can we box?

Because he too was built strongly. Like Khlee, he was layered in his movements. He was careful. He was acting accordingly. Not in an off-duty naval officer sort of way. Not remotely echoing the chaps straight off the collegiate polo team rosters. 

The chaperone told Khlee that he worked a lot, but indeed yes, he wasn’t a stranger to the boxing ring. In fact, his brother had opened his own gym in the city. 

Khlee’s body language grew more relaxed. Another crystal of champagne found its way into their grasp. The man-of-sort’s name eventually bubbled to the surface of their conversation.

Bakri. 

The two guests seesawed between Deutsch and English. They saw eye to eye. They spoke as equals. 

“You’re like me,” Khlee said. With the same plainness that they asked for sport. “Living and hiding.”

Khlee looked up at the trees as they said it. At the undersides of the authentic, natural world spared only for the rich and famous and fakest. Sharing the burden – the price of it – with Bakri now. With Bakri later, they hoped. Outside of these suits one day, Khlee dared to think. In the ring, between the ropes. In the dark, somewhere plain and utilitarian. Or somewhere fine and decorated. It didn’t matter.

The weight, it was still there, by God. It was.

But Khlee’s shoulders felt comparably lighter with Bakri there sharing that marble bench with them by the poolside.

You’re like me.

Bakri thought for a moment, his eyes studying Khlee’s champagne glass. Then trailing up the boxer’s pale cream suit, drifting about their neckline towards features too strong and charming to ignore.

Bakri was gazing up at the trees now too, the very beginnings of a crooked smile forming there on his face. Unhidden.