1 Soul Bound
1.2 Taking Control
1.2.5 An Idiosyncratic Interlude
1.2.5.17 Drinking contest
Nadine decided not to poke at it. Heather had been graceful about giving into Nadine’s request; in gratitude the least Nadine could do was indulge Heather in her whim. Instead, she switched topic.
Nadine: “Sure, no problem. I take it preparations are going well, if you’ve got time to hand-deliver surprises?”
Heather responded enthusiastically: “They sure are! I’ve cued up footage for most of the weekend, and Mary-Lynn’s acting as backup for tomorrow’s uploads. The surprise star of today’s womble adventures was Bungo. Did you hear how our pub-trip went?”
Nadine shook her head in fascination and indicated a willingness to listen. Anything was better than going out to sing that setlist, and this sounded fun.
Heather: “It started off quite normal. I’d dyed his hair and we found an unpleasant thug even larger than Bungo we could grab some clothes off. Then we entered the Castagnaro, and nearly passed out from the fug. I had to activate my vision skills even to see as far as the bar. The beer smelled like horse piss, the denizens smelled like stale beer and the bucket in a small closet not only smelled of vomit - there were chalk rings drawn on the floor around it so pukers could be scored on their accuracy.”
Nadine: “Charming.”
Heather: “We grabbed a table and started listening out for any mention of bandits, smugglers or Baron Orsini. Everyone else was drinking hard, so I told Bungo to order something, anything but the beer. He noticed a row of bottles behind the bar, by a big picture of hawk-bannered troops holding a bridge; most of them were unlabelled, so he decided to start at the left and order one shot from each.”
Nadine: “So he got drunk?”
Heather: “Not noticeably. He’s got an amazing constitution because of the legacy skill he brought over from Divine Mountain. I wasn’t having much luck hearing anything interesting, so he tried using his Seer skills. Only his crystal ball would attract too much attention, there were no clouds or tea leaves to read, and the tabletop felt like glue so he didn’t want to put tarot cards down. So he spilled drink over it, and tried using that as a mirror.”
Nadine: “Did it work?”
Heather: “Well something happened, because Bungo got to his feet, weaving a little as though he really were drunk, pointed as a skinny old man with a beard that could hide a badger, and shouted ‘You. I challenge you. *hick* to a drinking contest. Winner gets complete honest answers to three questions, *hick* loser pays for the drinks.’ The skinny old man on the stool by the bar straightens up from his hunched posture and says in this weird reedy voice ‘Heh heh heeee, you’re gonna lose, boy. I choose the bottle!’.”
Nadine: “Oh no. So what happened.”
Heather: “A hush fell over the place. The geezer whispered to the man behind the bar, who looked like his head had been caved in by an axe one time too many, and the barman produced a Calabash from a locked iron safe with so much care you’d think it was a holy relic or an unexploded bomb. The Calabash was placed dead center on our table, then the geezer sat dead opposite Bungo and picked a glass from the matched pair being proffered by the barman. The glasses were so clean they glinted. It felt like an old Western movie.”
Nadine: “A Calabash?”
Heather: “It was the damnedest thing. A bottle gourd so old it felt like stone, with a stopper attached to its neck by a long red tasselled sash. The barman opened it and poured a dark red liquid into each glass, carefully not to spill a single drop upon his own skin. I experienced Bungo’s feed later while editing it. The taste was really bitter; some sort of distilled fermented tree sap.”
Nadine: “So he drank it?”
Heather: “Oh lord did he drink it. The two of them went head-to-head, shot after shot, while everyone in the bar looked on and laid bets. From the comments I overheard, it was clear the geezer was the local drinking champion, and over the years at least three people had died from drinking against him. Most of the bets were on precisely how many shots Bungo would manage before frothing at the mouth then exploding.”
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Nadine: “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I could have used cure poison.”
Heather giggled.
Heather: “Wouldn’t have helped. Turns out alcohol poisoning wasn’t the issue. No idea what plant they brewed it from, possibly something magical we’ve never come across, but it had hallucinogenic properties. The Calabash supposedly came from Hawkwood himself, the hero who saved Torello at the battle of Castagnaro. Anyway, this is where things got weird.”
Nadine: “This is Bungo we’re talking about, the man who has tried every mind-altering substance under the sun; half of them new ones he created himself. What did he do? Try to sell them ownership of a bridge?”
Heather: “On the 11th shot, a disgruntled gambler who thought Bungo would have died by now threw a tankard of beer over his head. It washed the dye off. Those who’d bet low shouted he was a ringer and started to attack; those who’d bet high moved to defend. The biggest bar brawl I’d ever seen broke out. Two people died, one from being forced to swallow a chair leg, and another four were maimed. I jumped up to the rafters to keep safe, and the view let me keep track.”
Nadine: “Doesn’t sound all that weird.”
Heather: “The weird bit was Bungo’s reaction. He stood up, swaying like a floppy marionette, and started talking in Chinese, declaring that he was the reincarnation of Cao Jingzhi. There was a hail of missiles being thrown past our table: knives, bottles, axes, limp bodies, axes in limp bodies; none of them hit him. He just stood there swaying, and carried on the contest, pouring shots for himself because the barman was busy setting someone on fire, seemingly accidentally bashing people behind him over the head with the whirling Calabash he held by its sash. He was like this invincible deity of martial arts, able to see every move coming. The table ended up surrounded by unconscious bodies three deep.”
Nadine: “Wow. So he won the contest?”
Heather: “No because the …”
But they were interrupted by Gorana.
Gorana: “Come on. Time to sing! Don’t worry if you’re not perfect on the words, that will improve the effect.” She grinned and grabbed Nadine’s hand, dragging her out of the kitchen and towards the stage.
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The worst part of it, she thought later, was having to play it straight, smiling brightly as she announced a song as a ‘favourite’ rather than hide her face. If only masks were in fashion.
Heather sat with Bahrudin, a joyous expression on her face, and eating the popcorn that Gorana had served everyone. Heather had provided her with a handheld microphone, and any time the pair of them rated her performance on a song too good, they called for an encore and demanded she use the mic.
She eventually managed by casting her mind back to a competition in Vienna that she’d taken part in. She hadn’t won, but afterwards she’d been dragged out to an acquaintance’s bachelorette night party, and they’d ended up in a drunken karaoke bar near Maria-Theresien-Platz. One happy and enthusiastic face had stuck in her mind from the event, an accountant with bleached blonde hair, and Nadine had modelled her attitude upon her memories of that woman.
When she reached the end of the set, she gave a cocky bow and received a round of applause, before reverting to her normal self-as-a-kafana-owner. Now if only she would never need to play that ingénue role again. Still, it was interesting to know she could do it. If she really had to.
For her second set she switched to her violin, playing the most traditional local music she knew, from lively dances to sweet laments, though as usual the men just stayed sitting down. Heather looked disappointed.
Heather: “What is the matter, Elder Bahrudin? Have all the old traditional steps been forgotten? Or is everyone too old to dance?”
Bahrudin: “Ms MacQuarrie, it is true that my feet are old, but my memory is as keen as ever and there are feet here younger than mine. We do not forget our traditions.”
Heather: “Then why no dancing? I had hoped to see one before I left.”
Bahrudin: “Perhaps you shall, perhaps you shall. But not tonight. On Thursdays the kafana closes very promptly, because on the morrow is the Islamic day of assembly, Al-Jumuah, and many will be waking early so they can perform Salat Fajr before the Sun rises, then later be heading off in the mini-van to the masjid in town and returning after Salat Asr so they can finish the day with Salat Isha after the last purple glow of sunset disappears.”
Heather: “Timing controlled by the sun and the seasons, not a set hour of the day?”
Bahrudin: “That too is traditional. To be Bosnian is to be pulled in many directions, and yet stand firm; to bend without breaking and then later revert; to absorb, and make Bosnian the things that previously were not.”
Heather: “Is that not difficult?”
Bahrudin: “Compromises can be complex and often leave people feeling aggrieved, but only those who’ve not experienced war think that the simpler solution of shooting at each other is preferable. Our village has found a balance it can live with.”
Heather looked thoughtful, and soon headed off to get further preparations done. Nadine didn’t see her again until after the last customer had left and they met outside in the courtyard.