Usual Disclaimer: Paramount owns the characters, and the playground, but I 
wrote the story purely for the pleasure of finding out something new about a 
Cardassian or two. I'll be sure to put the characters back on the shelf, clean, and 
in decorous positions when I'm done. If you want to use this for any other 
purpose but your own enjoyment, you need my permission to do so. All other 
rights reserved to the author. 

Rating: Maybe PG for some adult thoughts on Garak's part, but nothing explicit, 
and the boys don't get any. 


Kanaar

"Doctor, what a pleasant surprise!" Garak smiled at his friend over the box he 
was unpacking carefully onto the table. Bottles of many shapes and sizes, all 
filled with exotic looking liquids, were coming carefully out of the antigrav 
cushioning. 

Bashir stepped inside the small shop, looking at the array of glass with curiosity. 
"What's all that, Garak?" 

"A parting gift from Tain" the tailor answered. "A selection from his private 
cellar - Mila made sure it got to me." 

He was glad the Doctor had come, the memories the unexpected package had 
raised were far from pleasant and he could use the company. There were so few 
he could share any part of his life with now. If he were honest with himself, 
there had never been many, and with the death of Tain, another huge chunk of 
his life had been cut away. No more opportunities. At least when he had been 
alive, the future had not held such irrevocable loneliness. He had been allowed 
his father for just a few brief minutes, now all he had left was the line of bottles. 
Well, so be it. He raised his head from his task and smiled brightly at his friend. 

"Doctor, have you ever had vintage kanaar?" 

Bashir returned the smile, and shook his head. "I'm afraid Quark's stock is the 
only exposure I've had", he picked up the nearest bottle carefully and peered at 
the lime green contents. "I thought kanaar was blue?" He remembered the bottle 
he'd taken from Garak in Quark's the day his implant had malfunctioned. 

Garak shook his head sadly. "I can see that literature isn't the only aspect of 
Cardassian culture you need exposure to, Doctor." He indicated the row of 
bottles.  "Perhaps you would do me the honor of allowing me to remedy that?" 
Better to look to the future, share them with one of the few friends he had left 
than to have them around to remind him of the pain of his past. 

Bashir's first impulse was to decline. He hadn't liked the kanaar he'd had in 
Quark's, and his experiences with Cardassian literature were leading him to 
wonder if he just had no affinity for the culture aside from his friendship with 
Garak, but something in his friend's face changed his mind. He remembered the 
look Garak had quickly masked when Tain died, and how he had smoothly 
covered his feelings with plans for escape. He would never forget how his 
evasive friend had allowed him to share one of his deepest secrets, and knew the 
unreadable smile for the cover it was. He accepted, and arranged to meet Garak 
in his quarters later that evening. 

                                                            * * * 

When Bashir reached Garak's quarters, the small table inside had been replaced 
with a larger one, and on it were arranged the bottles from the case, glassware, 
and an array of Cardassian delicacies. The geometrical patterns formed by the 
food and drink were intricate and reminded Bashir of a mandala. Garak beamed 
at his guest as he seated him across from himself at the table. 

Bashir smiled back at his host. "Garak, this is marvelous!" he said, looking 
curiously at the unfamiliar foods and oddly shaped glasses, letting the design 
pull his eye to the center of the arrangement where one bottle sat in solitary 
majesty, surrounded by its court. "Is this traditional?" he asked. 

Garak nodded, sitting down. "Yes, there are many different arrangements - a 
Cardassian courtesan must be familiar with over a hundred different placements 
for a variety of occasions and society in order to be considered competent, and 
to avoid offending her clientele." He picked up a glass, a delicate thing with a 
bowl no larger than a thimble. Rainbows danced across its surface as he turned it 
in his hand. "Now this, for example, is a courtesan's glass, for public ceremony. 
He put it down. "A beautiful thing, but not really appropriate for a setting such 
as this." 

And a VERY specific message from Tain, who had included it with the rest of 
the glassware on the table. He smiled, pushing the thought aside to concentrate 
on his lecture. "And a man would never think of using it, in public or in private 
unless he wished to send a very specific message." He omitted the other use the 
tiny glass had. He indicated the setting itself. "Now, this setting is appropriate 
for two of the upper class dining together in public, in the evening." Again, his 
explanation omitted the other messages the setting would send to another 
Cardassian, had there been one present. The hidden meanings behind the choice 
of foods and glassware would warm him through the evening, and a secret kept 
was far sweeter than one revealed. "I have added a few examples not really 
appropriate to the setting to demonstrate the variety of meanings possible in just 
the arrangement of the table." 

Garak swept his hand over three bottles, one containing green liquid flanked by 
two of blue close by Bashir's right hand. "On this side, and close to the guest 
rather than the host, indicates informality and a gathering between friends of 
long standing." And the choice of liquors indicates a sort of esteem that I will 
not reveal to you, my friend, he thought silently. Bashir smiled sideways at his 
friend, sensing, as usual, the layers behind the tailor's words. "And is this 
appropriate to the setting, or simply for my education?" he asked, indicating the 
solitary bottle in the middle of the table. 

Garak beamed as he selected a pair of large glasses with clear bowls and smoky 
green stems. He took the bottle Bashir had asked about and poured a small 
measure of dark green liquid in each. He handed one to the doctor and sat with 
the other, swirling the liquid slowly in the bowl. Bashir did the same, and almost 
dropped the glass as heat traveled through it to his fingers. "Now this is Tariil, 
from the valley of Braxil." Garak inhaled appreciatively. "It is made in three 
stages, each taking nearly ten years, and then is aged in wood for another 
twenty." He took a slow appreciative sip. The cold fire sent fingers of pleasure 
through his whole body and he closed his eyes as the complex coolness gave 
way to the fire/sharp finish. 

Bashir took a cautious sip, and gasped as the abrupt change in flavors hit him. 
He looked at the glass respectfully and took another small sip. This time he was 
ready for the shift in flavor. This was definitely better than what he'd had at 
Quark's. "That's very interesting," he said, controlling the impulse to take 
another sip. Garak had still taken only one and mindful of his friend's appraisal 
of his eating habits, Bashir decided to err on the side of caution. "Is it a 
characteristic of the fruit or the process that produces the effect?" The drink was 
definitely potent as well. Bashir felt a slow buzz begin at his toes and work its 
way pleasantly up his spine. 

"Both" Garak said succinctly. "But you will have a basis for comparison a bit 
later in the evening, Doctor." He raised his glass, admiring the color. Tain really 
had managed to assemble an impressive collection. "This is what you would 
term an aperitif - it should always be the first beverage served, in fact, or its 
complexity would be lost." He took another sip, and Bashir happily did the 
same. He did not tell the young doctor that the amount he had poured for each of 
them would buy most of the contents of his shop, had it been available for 
purchase, and he didn't even want to speculate on how Tain had managed to get 
hold of it. The Braxil valley, once the best growing region on Cardassia, had 
been destroyed nearly fifty years before. He took savage pleasure in knowing 
how Tain would never have allowed himself to sample this, reserving it as he 
had all valuable and useful things, to further his ambition. A wave of sadness 
passed over him, as he thought of the reasons Tain might have had to send it to 
his exiled son. 

Bashir saw the brief shadow pass over his friend's face, but said nothing. He 
appraised the conversation as he did the wine, savoring the layered complexity 
of it, and knowing he was only touching the surface of most of it. He swirled the 
liquid in the glass again, feeling that heat so at odds with the exotic coolness of 
the taste. How like his friend, he thought suddenly. To look at the surface, one 
saw - what? Nothing but the façade of the tailor, so obviously an affectation. If 
one watched long enough, unexpected things - his ability to decode high level 
Cardassian transmissions, for example, gave the lie to the simple tailor, as the 
coolness of the drink belied the first heat. But what was beneath?

Garak watched the thoughts play across his friend's face and was glad he had 
chosen to share this with him. How the Doctor had changed from the brash 
young man who had let everything in his mind come out of his mouth. It still 
showed in his face, at least enough for Garak to know that the younger man 
appreciated a part of what the evening meant to him, but the silences were now 
as important to him as the words. They finished the tariil in one of those 
silences. 

Garak then took a plate and motioned for his guest to do the same. He filled it 
slowly, each food a memory and a pleasure. Mila, who had never wasted an 
opportunity to be kind to him, had sent most of it. He could feel her presence in 
the room, a sweet counterpoint to the painful presence of Tain. 

Bashir tried to do the same, but finally confessed. "Garak, I have absolutely no 
idea what I'm eating here and I'd like to." He indicated a small roll of green 
leaves wrapping an exotically colored center. 

Garak apologized. "Oh, Doctor, I am sorry! I realize that the replicators on this 
station are rather limited in their Cardassian selections," and THAT was an 
understatement, he thought, remembering the hours of programming it had taken 
to produce some of the dishes on the table. He was grateful that Tain had 
included the glassware, or it would have been a few days before the lesson could 
commence. "That is a rezva- the filling in that one is spiced meat and 
vegetables." Quickly he explained all the dishes on the table and the varieties of 
kanaar they went with. He took the Doctor's plate from him and filled it to 
complement his lesson, then set both plates aside as he regarded the table. 

"This will never do." He began to destroy his careful arrangement, grouping 
food with wine and chattering to Bashir about Cardassian cuisine as he did so. 
He set aside five large bottles with blue, red, orange, pink and green liquids in 
them. "These are the five main varieties of kanaar." Garak got five identical 
glasses for each of them and poured. He set five in front of Bashir, along with a 
plate of what looked like biscuits, and served himself the same. He picked up the 
orange variety. "This is an example of kraz kanaar. It is one of the lighter 
varieties, and it, and jux kanaar", he indicated the blue glass, "are the two 
varieties you will most likely be served if you request just kanaar.

Bashir remembered the jux kanaar from Quark's as the one he had tried and not 
liked. He sampled the kraz, and was reminded of impossibly light, exotically 
spiced honey. The alcoholic bite he was beginning to associate with kanaar lay 
underneath, perfectly balanced by the ethereal sweetness and he nodded 
appreciatively.  "That's quite good" he said. "Reminds me a bit of Terran mead." 
He took another drink. 

Garak smiled. "It's much better than the swill Quark stocks" he agreed. "But I 
suppose when one caters to soldiers and wants to make a profit, sacrifices will 
be made." He took a bite of biscuit and picked up the blue glass. "This is jux 
kanaar. It is also a common variety, and is considered suitable for ladies, though 
it is by no means simply a lady's drink." He took a sip, relishing the smoothness 
and subtle notes of kevas and derokanar in the flavor profile. He had not drunk 
jux kanaar since that night in Quark's, and wondered if Bashir was remembering 
as well. The shifty Ferengi had claimed at the time that it was the only kanaar he 
still had in stock - and the next week had brazenly served him kraz.

The doctor remembered as well, but said "This is what I had at Quark's - I 
remember not caring for it all that much, but this is obviously in a different 
class." Garak shook his head sadly. "Cardassia has specific growing regions, just 
as Terra does, and each varietal is named for its region. Quark gets most of his 
stock from the colonies, many of which produce decent bulk kanaar, but cannot 
use the varietal name, and so cannot command the varietal prices." He waved his 
hand dismissively.  "There's no incentive to produce a quality product, because 
there's no real market aside from Cardassia itself and our colonies. I'm afraid 
kanaar never really caught on anywhere else." 

Bashir set his glass down. "Perhaps that's because no one has bothered to 
introduce it properly." He looked hopefully at the food. "I certainly never 
thought much about drinking it before tonight." 

Garak followed the look, "Just a few more, Doctor, and I promise we'll eat." 
Bashir started guiltily. "Was I that obvious?" 

Garak shook his head and smiled. "Only to one who knows you." He picked up a 
glass with pink liquid in it. "This is parra kanaar. It's mainly a summer drink, 
and is the lightest of all - on a par with Bajoran spring wine, by the way." He 
took pity on his starving friend and served him the plate he had prepared earlier. 
"It should properly have come before the other two, but frankly, you would 
never be served so many varieties of kanaar at one sitting by anyone with taste, 
and I wanted to start with something you were already familiar with." 

Bashir looked up suddenly, disbelief warring with amusement on his face. 
"Surely you aren't including yourself in that assessment, Garak?" 

The tailor sighed. "Perhaps." He spread his hands wide. "But then, we are not on 
Cardassia, and your education has been sadly neglected in this area." And you 
would not deny an old exile the opportunity to snatch pleasure from something 
Enabran knew would cause me pain. He turned and picked up the green liquid. 
"This is taral kanaar - not from Braxil, I'm afraid, but made from the same fruit 
as tariil. Only the quality of the fruit and the process differs." And the quality of 
the memories as well, he thought. He fought the impulse to down the whole 
glass and pour another. Anything to eradicate Tain's face as he introduced a 
much younger Garak to this drink. He realized now how similar this evening 
was to those he had shared with Tain, long ago, when they had pretended that he 
was merely seeing to the proper education of a promising subordinate. Now he 
was passing on that legacy in the only way possible, as he would never have a 
son to share this with. How had he forgotten? Too late. It would always be too 
late now. He covered his feelings with the lecture. "This is not a variety I would 
expect to find anywhere but Cardassia, and it's a real pity because I find it to be 
the most pleasant of all." 

Bashir turned his attention to his drink, but was not fooled. The taral was really 
quite excellent, and Garak was as charming as ever, but he was concerned for 
his friend. Surely there was more to this evening than his education. "I can see 
why you waited to serve this one" he said, "If it had come after the tariil, the 
subtlety would have been lost. Would it have tasted the same?" 

Garak seized on the topic gratefully. "Not quite, but you would not have been 
able to appreciate the differences as well as you can when the two are separated 
by other varieties. Generally speaking, tariil and taral would not be served at the 
same meal, but I wanted you to have an opportunity to compare the two." He 
smiled.  "Really, Doctor, this seems to be a much more fruitful avenue for cross-
cultural appreciation than literature has been. Perhaps we should forget books 
and stick to food." 

Bashir laughed at the thought and finished his taral. "I can see why you prefer 
this one, Garak" he said. "The tariil was excellent as well, but it isn't really 
something you could have too often, is it?" 

Garak shook his head and poured another measure of tariil for both of them. 
"This is really an incredibly vulgar thing to do, Doctor, but try it now." 

Bashir did. The heat was still the same, but the aftertaste was almost bitter now. 
The almost electric change of flavors was muddy. He made a face. 

Garak chuckled and downed his measure in one gulp. How Tain would have 
disciplined him for that, if he'd seen! It really was a tasteless thing to do. He 
shivered as the exquisite flavor went flat. 

Garak ate a biscuit and motioned for Bashir to do the same. Then he picked up 
the last glass. "This is paca kanaar," he said. Dukat's preference too, he thought 
silently. Ah, well, the man couldn't be completely devoid of taste. "This is 
roughly equivalent to your Terran Oporto, see how it is thicker than the others?" 

Bashir swirled it in the glass. Yes, it had "legs", just as port did. Bashir had 
never cared for sweet heavy drinks like port, but he pushed aside his 
preconceptions and tasted it. It was heavy like port, but lacked the cloying 
sweetness. He could taste the fruit behind the heaviness, but it was not 
unpleasant. Bashir decided he preferred the taral. 

Garak was definitely beginning to feel the kanaar by now. He reached for his 
plate, though he was not hungry, to blunt the effects. He ate mechanically, 
filling the spaces between bites with bright conversation, trying desperately to 
behave normally. Perhaps this had not been such a good idea. 

Bashir saw the haunted look in his friend's eyes and wondered what he was 
thinking. Perhaps he should excuse himself and let Garak deal with what was 
bothering him in peace. Perhaps, but he could not leave his friend alone. Too 
many had already done that. But could he be of any help? He set down his glass 
and looked at the untouched bottles. How much history lay behind each one? He 
decided he had had a bit much to drink, and started to eat as well. 

Garak pushed his plate aside and rose from the table. He went to the viewport 
and gazed out at the stars. "You know, Doctor, it is comforting to have someone 
to share such experiences with." He turned to face his friend, smiling. "I'm so 
glad that this is more to your taste than, say, "The Neverending Sacrifice". 

Bashir wasn't fooled for a moment by the falsely bright smile or the offhand 
words. He could feel his friend's loss from across the room, but had no idea how 
to ease it. "You miss him very much, don't you?" he said. 

Garak's smile vanished. Damn him! He turned to the viewport again, to hide the 
look on his face. "There wasn't much to miss, really." He closed his eyes briefly, 
trying to get himself under control. 

Bashir rose and went to the viewport to stand beside Garak. He put a hand on his 
shoulder. 

Garak whirled at the touch, throwing off the comforting hand. Too close. Did he 
know? He looked intently in the Doctor's eyes and saw only bewilderment there. 
"I apologize, Doctor" he said quickly. "I must have had a bit more kanaar than I 
should have." He crossed to the table and sat down, fighting the impulse to take 
the doctor in his arms. He really had drunk too much. 

Bashir stayed at the viewport, helplessly wondering what to do. "Garak, it's all 
right to feel his loss," he said. 

Garak smiled bitterly. "And how do you feel loss for something you never had, 
Doctor?" 

To hell with it. He poured himself another glass of kraz. No sense wasting the 
more exotic varieties. By now his palate was hopelessly numbed. He stared at 
the unopened bottles and fought the urge to send them all crashing to the floor. 
He forced himself to drink it slowly. All he wanted now was to get so drunk that 
nothing more could touch him. He wished desperately that his friend would take 
the hint and go home, but didn't have the will to ask him to leave. Carefully, he 
put the glass down on the table. 

Bashir sat down and poured himself another glass. If all he could do was to get 
drunk with his friend, then that was what he would do. But he would not leave 
him alone like this. Not unless Garak threw him out. He poured the tailor 
another round as well. 

Garak took the glass gratefully, knowing that it was dangerous to drink more in 
his state, but past caring. Just for one night, he could pretend that there was one 
other being in the universe who cared about him, and accepted him. But how 
could this very young doctor ever do that? If he knew, truly knew, who and what 
his mysterious friend was, he would be gone like everyone else in his life. How 
could he calmly sit across from a torturer, a murderer, and sip his kanaar? If he 
knew what else was in the tailor's mind, the fantasies that filled his empty nights, 
that were covered with smooth words in the replimat, what would he do then? 
He finished the kanaar in his glass and set it down on the table. He reached for 
the bottle and refilled it, then picked up the glass and stared at the amber liquid. 
"Doctor, I am surely not very good company this evening. Please, don't feel 
obligated to stay any longer." 

Bashir shook his head and smiled. "I know what he meant to you, Garak, and 
while I don't understand why you shared your inheritance with me, I appreciate 
what all this" he spread his hand wide to indicate the bottles, "must mean to 
you." 

Garak laughed bitterly. "Do you, Doctor?" He was drunk now, and he didn't 
care. What did it matter? His father was dead, he was in exile, and his personal 
problems really didn't touch on anything that would betray Cardassia. Oh yes, no 
matter what Tain had thought, he had never betrayed him or his planet, and 
never would. If he embarrassed himself totally in front of the only friend he had 
left, then so be it. He really had nothing left to lose and he really didn't care any 
more. "He was the only family I had left - do you have any idea what that means 
to a Cardassian? I was his only son, and he did not even allow me to carry on his 
family line!  Do you have any idea what "Garak" means in Kardasi? And now I 
am irrevocably exiled, and I will never, ever, even carry on that miserable 
excuse for a name!" He was shouting by now, and slamming his fist on the table 
to punctuate his words. The glassware danced precariously in time with the 
blows. He drained his glass again. Bashir let it sit, hoping Garak wouldn't refill 
it, but knowing that if he interrupted the angry Cardassian, he would probably be 
forced to leave. The consequences of that could be worse than a hangover. 

Garak never noticed that the Doctor was no longer drinking as he drained his 
glass again. "I did everything I could to please that man! Everything! I was a 
model operative! I accomplished every task I was ever given, and never 
protested! He gave me the tasks no one else wanted and never even had the 
grace to thank me when I carried them out! I went into exile for him when he 
KNEW I was not at fault and he never even…." Garak buried his head on the 
table, shoulders shaking.  

Bashir sat, shocked, not knowing what to do, but knowing that he was the only 
person who had a chance of getting Garak through this. He rose and put his hand 
on his friend's shoulder, feeling the sobs rip through his body. 

Garak never even felt the hand on his shoulder in his misery. Time stretched as 
he finally allowed himself to feel the pain that had been lurking in his mind 
since Tain's death. When he finally allowed Bashir to lead him to his bed and 
put him in it, he was so exhausted that sleep claimed him immediately. He never 
saw the doctor cork the bottles on the table, or knew that he sat on the floor 
against his bedroom wall until he was sure that Garak would stay asleep. Then 
he went to the terminal in Garak's room and quietly requested the meaning of the 
word "garak" in Kardasi… 

THE END

Copyright 1998
The Archivist