Sundowning Diary - part 1

We saw hell of quarrel going on at registration desk, as I was thinking the way-out of this dilemma. Unsatisfied passengers shouting, swearing , pointing their fingers at poor desk girls, threatening them.

“ Looks like there’ll be no more peaceful protest today any soon. It smells like riot in here. ”

“ You bet it does, -I said. – Jafar, I spoke with Ata * (Papa in Azeri), he told me to bribe their manager and somehow take an emergency flight intended for diplomats ” .

“ You thing these Germans, will accept it. How much did he offer to pay ” .

“ He said go with 100 thousand euros, if he rejects I can bid up to one million tops ”

Jafar hesitated a little bit.

“In cash?”

“Jafar are you stupid, where we will get such amount of money in cash. I’ll write down a donation cheque.”

“OK…at least we should try, but I warn you, chief, these Germans are rather stubborn and “man of a word” people, they have every right to put us in jail for this proposal.”

“I guess not at a time of unrest like this”

After angry passengers dispersed, me accompanied by Jafar approached the desk. Poor girl after enduring bulk of profanity and threats already looked exhausted and sighed desperately as she saw us standing.

“Excuse me Miss, when we will be able to catch next flight to New York ?”

“Oh my God, I want to kill myself. We already announced that all domestic and foreign flights had been cancelled until this major 48 hour strike ends.”

“OK. Don’t get upset. Would you please call your manager...”

“Just a moment. Her Krule, this young mister wants to talk to you.”

After hearing his name, it had raised our doubts about possible bribery deal. Krule very much sounded that, there’ll be bad deal than no deal.

“Yes , how can I help you.”

“You see sir, I’m very sick person, yesterday I celebrated my 16th birthday, my name is Tural Hasanov from Azerbaijan, son of famous oil magnate Heydar Hasanov.”

I made a pause to see whether name made any difference. Nothing just blank and pale face. So, I continued.

“You see I was born with very acute disease, they call it dementia…”

Suddenly he interrupted.

“Son, I know what dementia is, not a such disease that would need to deploy whole emergency team for you…. We have one man from Munich with broken limbs and old women from England, coughing blood – in a such bad condition – who are awaiting this damned strike end.”

“But you didn’t let me finish…Its not about dementia….Its one of the most severe cases of dementia called, sundowning syndrome…. I become very much aggressive after dusk, as I am somehow addicted to natural daylight . I become very dangerous, can attack any person, after sun is down, I cannot bear the night…So you are my last hope. Let’s negotiate this issue and you can earn some extra hundreds of thousand euroes. No strings attached… You can whether report it to your company- I’m sure that they ‘ll happily approve extra quarter a million euro income for just one tiny exclusion. It would be legally –or you can take all this money to yourself – that would be illegally but who would interrogate you for saving young kids life especially in times of such unrest.”

His eyebrows went up…Seemed like intimidating gesture.

“Anna, please call Herr Bauchman -- dial his personal mobile phone number.”

Who the hell was the mysterious Herr Bauchman. CEO of airlines, chief of police department, Foreign ministry official? We heard a chit-chat going on between this stubborn manager and mysterious Herr Bauchman in plain german… It was like a miracle to see fading gloom in managers face transform into cheerful smile. I winked at Jafar.

“You see, money made the difference I guess.”

After a while he hanged the phoned and approached me and whispered.

“How are you going to make the payment?”

“You mean legal or illegal one ---- you know what I mean…?”

My words slapped his facial expression

“No, all money will go to company, I will only get tiny interest.”

“Ok… I don’t have such amount of money in cash so I’ll fill out a donation cheque… Don’t worry you can verify its authenticity from your bank.”

His pale face glistened with joy as I handed him cheque holding too many zeros within. Out of a sudden I noticed one angry looking , small, heavy mustached man staring at the manager, whilst he give me affirmative nod, that everything has been taken care of and I can now head to terminal No. 6 and get ready for emergency flight. Then “angry-face” whispers something into the unseen ears of mid-age grumpy black women who had been verbally assaulting the registration officials most of all.

“What?” – she almost screams. “Screw them,…I’m not gonna let these f…heads bias my ass. F…. the rich people; they are not flying anywhere unless we fly.”

This was something massive, irritating screaming of badass woman alerted the entire terminal, frustrated passengers sitting on the bench, British couple sleeping on the floor after long expectations, even those who made their way fast to a restroom for a “number one” instantly rushed out to check whether airport would decide to resume their flight.

Angry crowd stormed to ticket counter, again intimidating the manager. Jafar stepped forward instantly, to protect me from possible smashing or accidental punches as tension escalated.

One young thin man with heavy whiskers of wolverine from X-men, wearing ragged jacket and jeans, grabbed the manager from his hair and dragged outside, after badass black women discovered my donation cheque and showed others. There was no one to stop this raged people, as entire security personnel had been striking.

Registration girls ran away screaming. Meanwhile, angry crowd beat the German manager half dead, breaking his nose and front teeth, only British pair and Pakistani family were not attending this vandalism. Small protest soon turned into violent riot, passengers smashing the windows, breaking the chairs and benches, shouting various slogans. One of them pointed me with his forefinger.

“Hey , this is son of bitch who tried to bribe the airlines”.

Scared of circumstances I faced real possibility I was going to die. Jafar firmed his stand, getting ready for the imminent attack. He put me behind him, and took of his black suit jacket, for easily maneuvering his arms while boxing. He did not recognize my voice charged with aggressive intimidation, as my survival instinct stimulated my neurons that used to be passive before.

“Move back, morons” – I demanded , holding a special gadget intended for working out my palm muscles that resembled very much a detonator of some kind, I also split open my shirt as for showing off imitated explosive vest –which in real was just a thick bulletproof father ordered me to wear all the time, just in case.

“Are you deaf, move back or I’ll blow myself up, tearing your useless limbs f…k away, look I’m all covered with explosives.”

“ Jafar, kömək elə də, nə qoyun kimi baxırsan ” ( Help me, don’t stare at me like a dumb – i told him in Azeri, as he looked astounded, yet unable to distinguish between bluff and reality.

Jafar realized the scam after all, began playing supporting role of associate extremist.

“You heard him, any needless move and you’re all dead.”

That day I discovered my acting skill, seriously...looking at their pale face, just like underage children beaten by a stranger in the absence of their parents, pondering on the philosophy of life and death, and gradually stepping backward, no sign of previous rage. False bomb alert proved helpful in this case.