Chapter 16: Drunkards
A raucous shout of laughter rolled up the slope from the river.
Alan nodded his head over his shoulder in the direction of the hilarity.
“We have a real pair of ‘dodgies’ this time.”
Another set of loud guffaws buffeted us.
“Not since I guided Escobar back in the 80’s have I come across a pair quite like these two.”
Allan nodded in the direction of the laughter.
“Actually Pablo was a breeze once you got used to all the loaded side-arms packed by his bodyguards.”
I raised my eyebrows, “Really you guided Escobar?”
“Yes, compared to our current duo he was quite a gentleman. He flew in with his private jet, no passports needed. And he paid very well, Cash!”
I chuckled. ”So much for Interpol and all that law and order stuff.”
Alan went on, “What did I care about the morality of Escobar selling cocaine to stupid people. When it is moved out here money can buy anything. And if you are invited to these bad boys table, it is best to accept their invitation, else one may find oneself on the menu.”
Alan tilted his head at us and turning he indicated to follow.. “Come, let me introduce you to our guests!”
To one side of the deck was the customary serving table covered with a cloth sporting a vibrant African motif. Opposite it, were four comfortable camp chairs set in a half circle facing the river.
Three of the chairs were occupied.
I immediately recognize Roger, with his dark brown hair, and bushy beard which could not hide the roundness of his face. Being much shorter than his father in stature, I guessed he inherited his features from his mother, including the propensity to follow, which I imagined was necessary if one was to get on with Alan.
As it was not yet midmorning, half of the table sported what was to be expected at this early time of day. There were the flasks, jugs and cups, all laid out to make coffee or tea. Beside these was a woven basket containing toast and another with freshly baked muffins. Both were covered with a gauze cloth to keep off insects. Alongside lay the cutlery to spread the butter, marmalade or jam in the glass jars. All the elements of a light Bush breakfast.
All of it untouched.
On the other side of the table, somewhat forlornly, stood an empty whiskey bottle, and two bottles of vodka, one of which was half empty. An ice bucket and crumpled soda cans completed the picture of a different indulgence.
Roger stood and moved across to meet me. Shaking his hand. He greeted me as warmly has had his father. In the same fashion I introduced Moses.
Then with a broad sweep, Roger gestured towards the other two men, who had remained seated as we arrived.
“Let me introduce our guests.” Roger paused, ““Alexei.”
A man with dark eyes and a face whose roundness and dark brown hair bore a vague similarity to a shaved Roger, nodded back at us.
Roger indicated an older man of a slighter build than his companion,. Even though sitting in a chair, it was obvious that like the young one, he was not tall. His sparse fair hair was closely cropped, in a military style. I was not sure if the thinness of his hair was as a result of its cropping, or because he was going bald.
I extended an open hand for a friendly shake.
Vladimir didn’t rise from his chair, instead he lazily raise his arm to give my hand a perfunctorily listless clasp. At the same time he briefly drifted his small piercingly blue eyes in my direction. He accompanied his glance with a nod of his head and an indecipherable grunt. This was issued when he had already turned his head back towards his companion, to whom he began to address in what I assumed was Russian.
He didn’t register, let alone care, that I was introducing myself. “Hi, Nice to meet you, I am Gideon.”
I waited politely for him to finish speaking to the other man, and then as he swiveled his eyes at me, I addressed him, ‘”This is my partner, Moses.”
This time it was Alexi who spoke, again in Russian. Vladimir didn’t even grant us an acknowledgement before he reply to whatever it was Alexi said.
Turning back to look at me, he let is empty gaze linger long enough for me to realize that the piercing blue of his eyes emanated not so much from their color, as from the pinprick constriction of his pupils, allowing the hue of his iris’s to dominate.
It was then that the air eddied towards where I stood. It brought with it the smell of stale whiskey, which even a subsequent half bottle of odorless vodka couldn’t suppress.
“Can I offer you any coffee or tea? Alan invited us to the table, “Feel free to have some of this toast or a muffin.” He added that the coffee was fresh filtered, not the instant chicory knock off stuff.
While Alan poured the coffee, both Moses and I helped ourselves to the tables other bounties.
The scene was idyllic. Beyond the leafy shade over the deck, and the swaying fronds of the river grass, the morning sunlight sparkled with a million glitters off the rippling water bumbling across the rocky shallows.’ In the background, like a musician practicing for a performance, the ‘melody’ of a Red-eyed bush dove rose up and down its repetitive scales. It blended into the rivers whispers as seamlessly as the music mingled with the murmurs of a crowd waiting for their maestro.
But then there are few sounds out here which don’t find favor to anyone who is a child of the bush.
I wondered if the two foreigners were as affected by the halcyon splendor of the setting.
“What a great place for breakfast” I commented to no one in particular.
“I want more drink.
It was Vladimir who spoke.
“Vodka”, he added.
Roger obliged, handing him a glass, then filling it half full until Vladimir lifted it to clink on the neck of the bottle, indicating it was enough.
I watched in amazement as he raised the glass, and tilting his head back poured its contents down his throat with no more than three gulps.
“Nostrovia!” I felt obliged to toast him.
“You speak Russian?”
Vladimir fixed his beady eyes on me.
“No”, I replied, “I know a few words, but I can swear in Russian.”
A smile appeared on his face.
“Where did you learn Russian curses?
“I had a Russian girlfriend.” I lied. “Idi Nahui” she would say to me all the time, and “Idi v pizdui.”
Vladimir snorted with laughter and turned to say something to Alexei, whose face also glimmered with a smile.
“Where was that?”
“Oh it was a long time ago” I said, “I was scared of her. She was bigger and stronger than me. But she taught me many useful things, not just to swear.”
“What did she teach?” Alexei’s voice was deeper than Vladimir’s.
“She taught me how to milk a cow.”
I hesitated, I didn’t want to upset my hosts by offending their clients, but I sensed that it would be something other than raunchiness that would offend this pair. But then again maybe I was wrong. There indifference to my introduction annoyed me.
I didn’t like this man. There was something about him. I was willing to push a tad.
“She made me suspect that a lot of Russian women could teach that trick,: I said.
From experience I had learned that there were two types of drunks, the stupid silly, and the nasty aggressive. My gut feeling was that Vladimir fitted into the latter category. His slightly flattened boxer nose bore testimony to a pugnacious past.
Probably, like many of his countrymen,, he had an astounding ability to be a functional drunk. It was clear that on this beautiful morning he wasn’t sober, and probably had been drunk for a while.
My verbal jab had hit its mark. The flush of redness in his face indicated he had not missed it. There are few things that get a drunk riled up as a jab at their women, even the ugly ones.
I was about to ask him his wife’s name, and then follow it up by telling him what a coincidence it was that I had once owned a dog, a big fat mongrel bitch with wobbly legs , with the same name.
But out of the corner of my eye, I saw the consternation on Rogers face. It validated that I was dealing with a nasty sort of drunk, so I backed off.
“Actually”, I mused out a loud, “I remember now. She wasn’t really Russian, she was from Siberia.
I could see that Valadimir was filtering my words through the fog of his intoxxication to
judge if they was a slight or not.
“Are you hunters?” Alexei asked.
Unlike Vladimir, he spoke good English, with almost no accent.
“No”, I replied, “I’m working here under a contract to train the scouts, so that they can save animals, so that you can shoot them.”
Vladimir, still unsure of how to react, glowered at me.
“Is this the first time you have hunted in Africa?” I asked Alexei.
“No, we are here many times. We are involved with mining. In Tanzania and the DRC. This is the first time we are in Zambia.”
His expansiveness suggested that Alexei was the other type of drunk.
“I want more vodka.” Vladimir spoke again. “I want Vodka and Cola.”
Roger raised his hand and beckoned with a finger towards the back of the bar, situated towards the rear of the chitenge hire up the slope behind us.
As the barman started across the lawn Vladimir spoke again.
He turned to me and with a flick of his head said, “Tell your boy to bring me the Coke.”.
I was correct, he was the nasty sort of drunk.
“I beg your pardon, I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”
His escalation caught me off guard.
The slur of alcohol was now detectable in his voice, “Tell your flat nose to bring me a Coke.”
Both Alan and Roger, sprang up and stumbled over themselves to diffuse the situation.
On my turf I would have pushed the interaction, he was drunk and I was not. But I had to give him credit. In Africa he knew which buttons to push to get a fight going. In Africa, we take less offense over our women, but racial slurs, that is fighting talk.
My temper was rising as I stood and said to Moses, “Now that we have finished our coffee it is time for us to go.”
Moses stood and walked across to set his cup down on the table.
He turned, and for the first time since sitting on the deck, he spoke.
“Vladimir”, he said softly, “Alexi asked if we are hunters. My friend Gideon said he is not a hunter.
That is not quite true. He used to be a hunter. A very good one.
And I”m still a hunter, which is why he has asked me for help.
Moses moved his gaze to Alexei, and then slowly back to Vladimir.
I hunt men.”
He crossed over to where the barman now stood with the cola can in his hand. Taking it from him in two fingers Moses swivelled smoothly like a stalking leopard.
“Vladimir,”he hissed quietly,”I have hunted many Russians. In Angola, they were easy to find, and they were even easier to kill. Because they loved their Vodka.”
The menace in his voice was apparent.
“Today I am a religious man, so now I bring you your Cola, instead of a bullet.”
Handing over the cola can, Moses smiled at Vladimirs baleful glare, even as he beckoned for me to follow as he walked away.
Both Alan and Roger hurried in our wake.