Pitchfork, Torch & Slivovitz

Let us never speak of this night. Ever. Ever?, whispers the echo. 

Evading my pursuers, I’ve managed to climb half the mountain skyward towards the castle. I’m diagonal with my fingers sunk into the soft soil of the slope. Sometime between medieval & dawn. The root of an oak prods my navel like its a goddamn doorbell. My feet dangle without a foothold. The trees of the forest have risen alongside me. Within the trees, I can hear the chittering of wood creatures. And I hear the echoing ramblings of a fool. A knight on the tilt. Sideways in his stirrups. Drunk to the hilt. 

The fucker won’t shut-up. 

Me go slavia?, the drunken voice echoes. No… Yugoslavia! He-heh, I chuckle. He-heh, laughter echoes through the trees and I hush at it. Shhhh! Shhh! Shh! Shut-up. Shut-up. I scorn the echo, you will alert the village people to our presence. Presents? 

I do imagine they’re still running about in the valley. Kicked-in ants. They. Them. Those who wish me ill. Pitchforks in hand. If I had a better vantage, I might see their lit torches far below. Fireflies around the lakeside. Flipping over beached rowboats as potential hiding places. Looking for the rogue thief in the night. But I’ve got them fooled. Them fools. Rather than flee back to the inn, as any sane man would’ve done, or find solace in another tavern, I ran into the forest. They’d never guess I would attempt to scale the moody side of the mountain, climbing to the thousand year-old castle which lords over the countryside. What idiot would try this?, I ask. Ha! Ha! the forest echoes back. I’ve thrown off my pursuers… for now. For now? 

Unless they’ve hounds. Are there bloodhounds in Slovenia? I can imagine pursuers sniffing my barstool to catch its scent. Odeur d’américain: whiffs of hotdogs & self-reverence. This way!, my hypothetical hounds would howl, barking through the village lanes. It would not be difficult for the mongrels to sniff out the sprayed shrubbery where I relieved my bladder. From there, they’d easily trace me to the great alp. This mountain. Then what? Hounds can’t climb. Would my pursuers send falcons after me?

Shit. I didn’t think about attack birds. Or drones, for that matter. I’d climb higher, but my dancing shoes are in tatters. 

I’m hardly the first knight bearing the Neverman family crest in this strange land. In the 1990s, Cousin Lazlo was helicoptering above Bosnia during American military interventions into the Balkan shit-goings-on. Earlier, in the 1980s, Captain Dick, an uncle of mine known for mischievous side-quests, backpacked through Yugoslavia. Sleeping on the night train. Subsisting on ketchup packets. Chased by Tito’s secret police. When straits became most dire, my uncle took refuge with a socialist farmer’s daughter. Or so Captain Dick’s story goes. I will not be so lucky on this night. There are no farmer’s daughters awake at this hour. Socialist or otherwise. 

I will wait in this hiding spot an hour longer. 

There wasn’t trouble during my evening at the vineyard, but it was there where I began to bend. Cviček was the origin of my undoing. A blend of red & white wines at a bewitchingly low alcohol level. Deceptively approachable. Two bottles later, I felt naught, but the sorcery had already enchanted my liver. I was left thirsty. I desired a night cap. I required a palette cleanse. I was beckoned by a tavern lamp like a moth to the pits of hell. 

Pub Bled.

Feels like moons ago, but it was only hours earlier when I came across the tavern. I had no sword, but I was armed with the sharp wit of a rubber mallet. I wore no chainmail, but I was armored with the stubborn confidence of a man who knows he is his mother’s favorite. As so, I dared enter Pub Bled. I walked into the tavern anticipating a Tolkien scene of rascals gathered around a hearth, daggers drawn, flagons high, slapping the beer wench’s posterior. Albeit, Tolkien didn’t spend much time on posterior. No, these must be George RR Martin anticipations. Reasonable expectations too. Bled is a scene out of a fantasy story, after all. Castle in the sky, sleeping dragon at the bottom of the lake. The Nazi weirdo Himmler wanted to build a temple to Odin on the island in Lake Bled. This is that kind of place. But the interior of Pub Bled is not mystical. It is just a fucking sports bar. There was a decent crowd watching an American movie on the big screen. In English. Nice! The crowd included half a dozen cheerful friends: young & restless Slovenes. One was mimicking Eddie Murphy to the delight of the others. Smiling, I took a barstool near the friends and asked of the movie, did I miss the banana in the tail-pipe scene? 

Crickets. Silence from the Slovenes. Only the Beverly Hills Cop soundtrack heard overhead. 

It wasn’t that they did not hear me. Or understand me. Each of the Slovenes had turned in my direction. They studied me, but did not respond. Most Slovenes know fifteen languages by the time they get their first zit. It’s the byproduct of being jammed between Italy, Austria, Hungary and Croatia. Slovenia is in the middle of everywhere; Slovenes have to learn all the language. But at this particular moment, these Slovenes had forgotten English. 

I ordered the local ale. Laško. It was inoffensive. Refreshing. I drank in isolation as the Slovenes went back to laughing together, no longer speaking Eddie Murphy’s english. I looked at the photograph my uncle provided me. Captain Dick does not recall which of these three women was his savior back in the 80s, but it was one of these farmer’s daughters in their socialist caps. Could either of these women from this picture be the mother of some of these young & restless Slovenes ignoring me in Pub Bled? Possible. These guys are fucking douchie enough to be my cousins. 

Niko was the guy behind bar. He’s an Olympic ski jumper. Maybe. Probably. Languages and ski jumps Slovenes excel at. And duplicity. When the Nazis occupied Bled, every waiter & maid was on the British Secret Service payroll. Of course, they were also working for the Gestapo. And the Soviets. Treacherous little fuckers.  

My inner dialogue was interrupted when Niko slid a shot glass in front of me. Slivovitz. Fuck. Plum brandy. No, thank you, I declined the invitation to ruin. Niko nodded towards the young & restless Slovenes. It was their doing. They were offering me this brandy. Smiling, they raised their own shots of Slivovitz in the air. What’s this? Have I made friends? Huzzah! My friends made a toast in Slovenian. Though, it could’ve been Slovakian for all I know. Niko interpreted the toast. They say you will be calling reindeer before there is daylight, Niko told me. Oh yeah?, I asked. How cute? Fun. I raised my shot glass to them and said, first one today! To the reindeer!

And we drank. 

Oh, I was feeling good. The potion worked its magic. I immediately transformed from an asshole frog prince into less-of-an-asshole frog prince. Grabbing my beer, I went to socialize with my new family. Drawn-in by their laughter, I mimicked their chucklery. As if I was in on the joke. Heha! Hey. Hi! My charm offensive was met abruptly by cold alpine shoulders. My friends of thirty seconds ago turned away, shunning my approach. I pivoted on my heel and whistled a tune to myself as I hopped back from whence I came. In the mirror behind bar, I found the dejection had removed the magic. I was back to being the full asshole frog prince I was three minutes earlier. 

This was when Marija walked in and asked – in perfect English – if the stool beside me was taken. Please!, I beckoned her to have a seat. Marija was a sultry enchantress. Her armpits smelled of rabbit stew. Her breath of burnt almonds. In the glare of the overhead TV, her eyes shined like two roulette wheels. What movie is this?, she asked. Where are you from?, she asked. How are you liking Slovenia?, she asked. Are you half-breed?, she asked. 

Niko disrupted our discussion with harshly-toned Slovenian words aimed at Marija. She argued back with vehemence, telling Niko how to go fuck himself. My translation could be off, but she was definitely giving Niko a DIY pro-tip of some sort. Suck it & see, Niko!, she maybe said. As she denounced the barman, Marija placed a hand on my forearm, claiming my banners as military support uprising against Niko’s feudal rule. Niko looked at her hand on my arm, flared his nostrils and departed. 

In his absence, I realized Niko may have been acting as my protector. Who was this Marija beyond the fishnets and low-neck sweater? Was I a mark? A potential john? Marija Magdalene asked if I would buy her a drink. Then she excused herself to take a call. Fine. It would not be the first goblet of wine I’ve shared with an unscrupulous lady of the evening. But that would be the extent of our alliance. I began to plot my exit strategy. I’d be leaving soon. Alone.

Cos fuck these guys! And fuck their plum brandy. I may be no sorcerer, but I can cast a curse with a flick of a finger. Fuck you. And one for you. Ha ha!

I waved over Niko. One more Laško. And a glass of Cviček for mademoiselle. And the bill, please. Yes, Niko says, you should know your friends are not happy you are not buying drink of Slivovitz. 

Huh?, I asked. Friends? 

Oh. My friends! The young & restless Slovenes had gathered their gazes in my direction. Feigned grins. Hungry eyes. Sure, Niko. One round. For the sake of peace in the realm. I will buy a round and then it’s time for me to fuck-off out of here. Niko spoke to my friends, giving them the affirmation they sought. Let’s party. Niko took out a half dozen shot glasses. Let’s get nuts. Then he took out another half dozen shot glasses. What’s this? The fellowship of young & restless Slovenes doubled. I’d been setup. I’d been duped. But there was no turning back. Not without inciting an international incident. 

Glasses were raised. Let’s go call the reindeer!, I toasted. First one today!, I toasted. 

The second Slivovitz hit like a blacksmith with a grudge. I knew I would have to be careful when eventually standing from the stool. I could not afford to wobble. Any signs of weakness amongst these cutthroats and I would be hog kibble. 

The door of the bar opened, but instead of Marija’s return, it was the ugliest Slovene I had ever seen. Note: he’s still handsomer than me, but as far as Slovenes go, he’s underperforming. You are Victor?, he asked in English. I am Timo, he said. 

Fuck. Is this the pimp? 

Timo asked why I did not like Marija. She’s fine, I replied. I am tired, I explained. Timo’s ugly eyes hardened and he said, you want to make garbage with her time? She spends time with you. Now garbage, he said with wildly gesticulating hands. You like Melania? Mrs Trump? I know her sister. You want spend time with Melania’s sister? Are you cut like a Jew? I will give you discount. You prefer man? I know Melania’s brother?

Mildly horrified, while still entertained, I jested with Timo, asking, what about Luka’s mom? Do you have her number? I bet she’s sassy, I said to Timo, referencing the mother of the famous basketball player.

Pimp Timo scrutinized my request with his ugly furrowed brow. Did he know Slovenia’s favorite son’s mother? Of course. Was she sassy? What is this, “sassy”? His phone rang. You must wait, Victor, Timo the pimp said. I gave Timo my raised thumb of obedience. Yep. 

As Timo stepped away, Niko arrived with my bar bill. Holy fucking shit. 

This night would not just cost me my sobriety. Apparently, I was expected to fill the king’s coffers with my entire coin purse. Was this what Captain Dick meant when he said “never turn your back on a Yugoslavian”?

Another glance at the bill. Not happening. I placed two hundred Euro on top of the tab. It’s not even close to covering. But it was more than I should pay. 

Everyone was distracted with a chase scene on the television. I slid off my seat. Unwobbled. I slipped out the front door. There were stairs down to the street. I glided over them. Slivovitz had granted me the power of weightlessness. I don’t remember my feet ever hitting the ground, I just evaporated. Poof! Like Dracula, I became bat. Who’s a sorcerer now?

Victor!, I heard somewhere in the distance. Timo’s ugly growl. 

I did not run straight to the inn. Any sane man would do that. I did not seek solace in another tavern. I ran in the opposite direction. I ran for the wood. They’d never think I’d scale the mountain. Fools!

Fools, the forest echoes back to me. 

It is cold. Spring is still new. My pursuers must have given up the pursuit by now. I do not hear the barking of hounds. Or the screech of falcons. If there ever were any. I slide down the mountain slope until I can manage to stand upright. Oof. The plum brandy still has me in its clutches. I cannot go on like this. After checking my surroundings, I regurgitate in a bush. Rid myself of this toxic wizardry. Vomit forth the poisons. Something for the hounds to lap up. I feel better immediately. 

I purge again and from the forest I hear it in the echo of my heaves. This is what they meant. The call of the reindeer.