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And as the week went on, to Angela’s great relief, the hostility between the men installing the security system and the Iranians seemed to dissipate. The SEALs of Tiburon Security stopped saying “raghead” altogether, and instead nodded civilly to the Iranians and exchanged with them what Angela took to be polite greetings in their own language—Farsi, wasn’t that it? The Iranians responded in kind, and Angela was pleased to think all sides were finally being diplomatically prudent. She was so happy with this apparent détente that she decided to participate. She listened carefully and learned a few of these Iranian greetings.
And so when Randall sent Angela to the supply room for a roll of blue bunting to decorate the lobby for the opening night gala, she was practicing one of her new Farsi phrases. As she walked into the restricted staff-only area at the back of the first floor, she was repeating “Kir tu kenet,” which she’d overheard and memorized this morning. She thought the phrase had a pleasant and musical ring to it. For no real reason, she decided it meant “good morning,” and in the privacy of the restricted area she practiced saying it with a loud and cheerful voice, turning the last corner before the hall leading to the supply room.
“Kir tu kenet! Kir tu—oh!” she said as rounded the corner and ran into a solid wall of man. He was tall enough that Angela’s face was in his chest, and for a moment she couldn’t see anything except the badge around his neck, which was pressing into her nose. She could just make out, printed across the top of the badge, “TIBURON,” at the point above the tip of her nose.
Powerful hands clamped onto her shoulders and moved her gently back. “The mouth on this girl,” the man rumbled in a deep bass voice. “Where’d you learn to say that?” Angela blinked up at the man, and for a moment she could not breathe.
It was him.
The large, rough-looking man with the shaved head and Fu Manchu mustache. The one who had been staring at her.
He was staring now, with a half smile that frightened her more than an angry glare would have done.
“Somebody teach you to say that?” the man asked.
It took a moment for Angela to recall that she’d been speaking her Farsi phrase. And then it took another moment for her to overcome the sheer terror of being in his grip, and then remember to breathe. “It, it was—I heard some of your, ah—friends saying it?” she said hesitatingly. “This morning? You know, to the Iranians? And so, ah—it was just—I thought it must mean ‘good morning’? Or something . . . ?”
The man snorted with amusement. “Or something,” he said.
“Oh,” Angela said, feeling oddly deflated—and still very frightened. In truth, her knees were wobbling just a bit. But she summoned her British spirit, took a step back, and soldiered on. “Then it—I had just thought it sounded so cheerful, and I do so want for everyone to get on nicely, so I thought that if I at least learned to say ‘good morning’—and in any case I, I—” Angela jerked to a halt as she heard herself going on and on. Stop babbling! she told herself. “May I ask, what does it mean, Mr.— Ah . . . ?”
“‘Chief,’ not ‘mister,’ I work for a living,” he said, with a great deal more force than Angela thought was strictly necessary. But he held out a massive hand. “Walter Bledsoe,” he said.
Angela stared at the hand for a moment. It was covered with black hair, and the knuckles were enlarged and terribly scarred—and she realized he was holding it out in order to shake hands with her. “Oh! Yes, of course,” she said as her manners came back online. “Angela. Angela Dunham. I, ah—I’m the assistant curator?”
“Nice to meet you, Angela,” he said, with what was clearly meant to be a warm smile, but instead seemed to her like the sort of leer a jack-o’-lantern might wear.
“Likewise, I’m sure, Mr. Bledsoe,” she said.
“Walter, not ‘mister,’ that’s my old man,” he said. “Or just call me Chief, like everybody else.”
“Yes, of course—Chief,” Angela said. She realized he was still holding her hand and pulled it back. “Tell me then, ah, Chief,” she said, emboldened by his friendly attitude. “What does that phrase mean, if not ‘good morning’?”
“Kir tu kenet,” he said, with what seemed to Angela like a very authentic accent. His smile grew broader. “It means ‘My dick in your ass.’”
“Oh Lord,” she said, and she felt herself blushing.
“It’s really not something you oughta repeat. Not a pretty girl like you.”
Angela floundered for some reply, her blush growing deeper. As far as she knew, she had never before been considered “pretty,” even by boyfriends. She was, she knew, a prime example of British Plain: pale, with slightly pinched features, and a figure that tended toward the doughy. But this man said it with such sincerity, and it was tremendously flustering. “Well, that’s—thank you, but—and then what should I say?” she finally managed. “I mean, to the Iranian gentlemen?”
“Well, if you have to say something,” the chief said thoughtfully, “you could try ‘madar ghahbe.’ That means ‘motherfucker.’ Or ‘kirkhor,’ which is just plain old ‘dick sucker.’ Although my personal favorite is ‘kire asbe abi too koonet.’” He beamed. “That means ‘hippo’s cock in your ass.’”
In spite of herself, Angela laughed. She was not really fond of that sort of language, but the chief said it with such innocent joy that she co
uldn’t help it. “I was really looking for something more in the line of ‘good morning,’” Angela said.
“Waste of time with them,” he said. “Only way they ever respect you is if you got your foot on their neck.”
“Am I really to choose between a foot on the neck or a, ahem—a hippo’s cock?”
“That’s about the size of it,” the chief said with a solemn nod.
“Perhaps I should remain mute,” Angela said.
“Well,” he said seriously, “if you’re sure you don’t like the hippo’s cock?”
Angela opened her mouth, closed it again, and then, in spite of her shock—or perhaps because of it—she laughed. “I’m sure,” she said. And then with a bit of a smile—since he had thought her pretty—she said, “Certainly not in that context, any road.”
