The Ambassadors’ Birds

by Christina Gossmann

I stepped out of the elevator and right in front of me, on the wall, were two birds. Not just any birds, but two absolutely magnificent peacocks, the iridescent feathers of blue and green trailing behind their bodies. Even without the full-on fan of the eye-dotted feathers, these birds were beautiful and noble, holding their blue, crowned heads up high. They were turned towards each other, one a bit more elevated than the other, and they were staring at a spot somewhere behind me.

I blinked, not understanding. How could they be so still, high up on the wall, standing on little ledges? Then I saw. They were stuffed, but their colors were perfectly intact. They looked alive, very much unlike other stuffed animals I’d seen in museums or friends’ dachas back in Russia. I once heard somewhere that peacocks symbolized immortality in ancient Greece and later on in Christianity, and that’s why they were often depicted next to the Tree of Life. It was ironic, almost cruel, that these peacocks—symbols of life—were very dead.

I had to force myself to look away from the birds. They were beautiful and strange. But my curiosity to see more was stronger.

It was a sunny day in the not too distant past when I visited this place of wonder and awe, a secret place that only few people know of, although it’s right here, in the middle of everything, close to the city’s masses.

I only got a brief glimpse of this world very new and different to mine, and had to leave it a few hours later, when most other guests had already departed. Among those honored to be invited to view and experience this enchanted spot for the first time were fifteen or so. Four others knew the place quite well. They belonged to it. Or it to them. The only reason I was there was that my boss was busy, so he sent me instead. I don’t think that any of the important people there expected somebody like me to show up.

To access this magical place, you muttered a secret password to the guards outside. They then accompanied you to the elevators that in turn took you up. The top few levels belonged to this group of powerful men. Once I heard the ding! of the elevator, announcing my arrival, I stepped into light and soft music and colors of wood and leather but also sparkle and gold.

After my moment with the peacocks, I walked on slowly, taking in the surroundings. On my left stood soft but imposing couches with a round embroidered table between them and a golden light illuminating the scene. Even though it was morning and very bright outside, the heavy caramel-colored curtains were drawn. The effect was that the interior appeared cozy and vaguely familiar. It was the atmosphere of your favorite reading room in an ancient library or the backdoor library of a duke or lord. All this without any books, but instead tables, laden with the most polished silver wear, dishes, vases and tall crystal bottles, and walls covered with photographs of important people and expensive bottles from all over the world. Next to each table stood a full-sized, broad-shouldered wooden man replica. Again, I was confused, until I realized that those shoulders held expensive suits to save them from wrinkles when the important men sat down at the splendid tables.

I was early and the room empty. All I could hear was the lull of the music draped over everything. Even though it was my first time coming—and even hearing—of this place, I hadn’t had any trouble finding it in one of the large commercial-looking buildings of the city. I hesitated but then walked to the middle of the majestic round room, a huge wooden bar on one end and red-carpeted stairs on the other. Finally, a man saw me and came towards me, smiling. I was nervous and quickly explained that I was very early. He smiled even wider and gestured to a small door at the other end of the round room. I had not noticed the door leading into yet another room. Now I saw the suits and ties of a few men who were already there.

On my way to the men, I passed a vitrine with thick, imposing-looking cigars. Somehow, this did not surprise me in the least.

The room I entered was named after a mountain, as were others, I would later discover. Most at the unique gathering were men of a mature age. They looked similar in statue, demeanor and physical demarcations. They also spoke at least two of the same languages, languages not everybody in the room understood. I did. This elevated me in their eyes and I was allowed to join their circle. I shook hands and exchanged nods, learning little by little, that these men were representatives of their countries and industries.

For a long time, I was the only woman in the room named after a mountain. I made polite conversation, handed out and collected business cards and joined the gentle chuckle that erupted from time to time in response to politically leaning jokes. A smile settled on my face, a smile that was pleasant and friendly enough for the occasion I hoped. It did not even leave my lips when one of the important men winked at me, as if sharing a private joke. I simply sipped my tea and smiled some more.

Slowly, the gathering grew to its full twenty people, as the important men trickled in. Three women also came. They too were very important, powerful and of extraordinary influence. A white-haired woman graced my circle with her presence, speaking in an almost whisper, hardly audible. She made sure to first ask everybody else’s occupations before revealing her superior own. I could not help but think that this might be a clever tactic to reinforce her position over us. I also came to understand that she was saving her voice for a moment that came later, when she stood up and announced—with violently rolling Rs, but loud and clear—the advances and superiorities of the country she represented.

A few other intriguing comments about superiorities and inferiorities of their countries versus this one were made over the course of our gathering. The speech we were there to hear was of little importance, even though we, of course, all acted otherwise. At the end, polite applause, and all stood to shake, nod, wink.

One of the men familiar with the magical place showed me the different wondrous levels, separated by steps floating in the air. I showed my appreciation with “ah”s and “oh”s. He looked pleased.

Before I left, as the elevator doors were sliding shut, I looked once more at the peacocks, and I thought about how in some cultures, they were viewed as vane and proud. And I imagined the important men, representatives of their various countries, sitting in this palace of peace in the middle of this turbulent and troubled town, smoking cigars in rooms named after mountains and looking up at their birds—beautiful and dead.

Peacocks grace the Tree of Life in this Indian tapastry