Zaur is from Baku and we have nothing in common except music, and that’s enough, so he calls his son to meet us in the street with a bottle of home-made wine which we finish off in shots as if it were vodka, taking a swig of sickly sweet fruit juice after each glass, and sharing the glasses like we were all brothers. And by the end of the bottle we’re out of conversation because Zaur can’t speak English and the son was drunk before he even got to us, and he’s supposed to be translating but he graduated 4 days ago and he’s been drinking through them all. And the Irish Setter is Fred, and he can sit if you hold up your palm, and he’s named after Freddie Mercury but the son says he’s 11 and Zaur says he’s 10 and they’re arguing over this as I leave them on the street, trying to figure out what I drank and if I’m drunk too.
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