1 Soul Bound
1.1 Finding her Feet
1.1.1 An Unexpected Reunion
1.1.1.1 Just an ordinary day?
Nadine Sabanagic awoke angry, as she always did these days. What was wrong with people? The banging on the door downstairs continued.
“Bahrudin, you old fool, if you do not stop bashing my door with your cane, I shall put poison in your coffee and make your wife a happy woman.”
Her trained voice, that used to hold large concert audiences in thrall, now had little use beyond reaching to the open courtyard below. She stretched, grumpily, and made her way to the bathroom, huddled in a kitten-decorated bed cover that reminded her of better times.
Bahrudin stopped knocking but was too proud to just leave things there; he shouted up
“Miss Sabanagic, you are disrespectful to your elders. Your prices are higher than the robot-staffed place in town. And you do not get up early enough.” (That last was said with some asperity.) Shaking his head in judgement, he added: “Why anybody comes to drink coffee at your kafana, I do not know.”
Nadine made her way down to the bar, set the coffee brewing, and started opening the shutters. This was now her stage, and if she didn’t completely like the role expected of her, she could at least see to playing it fully and in her own style.
“Be welcome, Elder Bahrudin, and peace be upon you.”
She busied herself setting up a complicated set of polished copper containers on a decorated circular tray, while he arranged himself comfortably on his usual wooden bench.
“It is true that I am disrespectful. But what else would you expect from a shameless woman who in her youth travelled the world by herself, unaccompanied by brother or husband?”
Her father, Dzevad, had played the violin, and her mother, Izeta, had had a voice to make the very stones weep tears. She’d grown up surrounded by love and music and a belief that anything was possible if you tried hard enough. Rather than marrying upon turning 18, she’d travelled abroad to study music and linguistics at University College London (UCL), funding her way with singing gigs, and even a couple of albums.
She carefully heated, filled and heated the tall dzezva pot in the order prescribed by local ritual, producing a thick, dense foam at the top of the spout that filled the entire room with an intensely rich coffee smell.
“It is true the kafec in town is cheaper. What job has not been mostly replaced by expert systems?”
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By the year 2025, both China and the USA were investing vast amounts of money into improving the expert systems spawned by Big Data, in a race for productivity and GDP growth. By 2030, over half the big recording companies had stopped using human musical instrument players for anything other than live performances. By 2035 a lot of vocalists found themselves being replaced too, although Nadine held on, by writing her own material, making things topical, bringing in flavours of blues music from different traditions around the world and creating fusions the computers had not been set even to considering yet.
And then, in 2040, Baching Mad was released. An expert system that could compose music and write lyrics. Damn good ones, she had to admit. She’d seen the writing on the wall, and retired gracefully with her reputation intact, spending her savings on buying and restoring a kafana in the most traditional and anti-robot area of her native Bosnia that she could find.
She served the coffee at Bahrudin’s table, accompanied by some sweet nutty nibbles she’d cooked herself the day before, a cup of water and a bowl of rough-hewn sugar cubes. He inhaled appreciatively, picked up a sugar cube and licked it, then started to sip the brew, being careful to avoid getting any on his fine moustache.
“And it is true that I do not get up early as you, respected Elder. Good cooking cannot be rushed, and I gather many of the herbs needed from our local woods. Alas, I am only a woman, and tire easily.”
Blatantly untrue, but she knew he’d let the flattery pass unchallenged. This banter was a game between them, and just because the rules were never stated, that didn’t mean they could be flouted.
“So perhaps you only come here out of charity to my poor self, out of the greatness of your heart.”
Bahrudin relaxed, the warmth seeping through him, perking him up. Though in her early 30s, Nadine was still good looking. Shapely, well rounded and, unlike most of the other local women, she refused to cover her hair which was long, straight and a glorious dark chestnut, tamed this morning by a simple braid.
“Perhaps, Miss Sabanagic, perhaps. Sadaqah is an important virtue, and there are worse things to give money to, than preserving the one remaining kafana whose peaceful spirit isn’t defiled by clanking monstrosities.”
He leaned in closer, with a smile.
“But perhaps I risk poison in my coffee not just because here I am not rushed, here others will listen to me ramble, and here I can forget for a few hours what my world has now become.”
“Perhaps it is because here there are no machines to spy upon me, measure me, judge me. Because, disrespectful though you are, your experiences have given your thoughts a richness and vitality that too many others lack.”
She sat with him, and poured herself a drink. Later on more men would arrive, and she’d leave them to their reminiscences and arguments, while she tended the bar and cooked. When it got dark, she’d hand running the bar over to the evening staff while she sang sad sevdalinka songs about ages past, when vukodlaks protected the forests, not armed drones; and when the big threat from across the border wasn’t a malfunctioning nuclear power plant, but rather the giant Balachko, who had three heads and could breathe both ice and fire.
But, for now, she lent an ear while he described with acid wit all the failings and stupidities he’d witnessed in the town since his last visit to her kafana.