They always did. Mom had. Dad, such as he was, had. And that damned Odetta, well, she'd run off to Magdeburg. But it didn't matter. He'd never told her anything, anyway.
When someone asked about his aspirations in life, and insisted on getting an answer, Estil would say, "My goal in life is to be shot by the jealous husband of a young wife when I'm sixty five." And that was all the answer he would ever give. Because he knew if he ever so much as shared his dream with anyone, it would be lost as a dream. It would become an ambition or-worse-a goal.
A customer leaned up against the bar, "Estil, shot of whiskey, make it a double, and this time make sure the glass is clean."
Estil grabbed a shot glass from under the bar and made a production of holding it up to the light then polishing it with the bar rag.
"Shit, Estil, just give me the damned whiskey."
Estil knew that if he ever talked about the dream, he'd be laughed at. If he talked about it, it would become an unobtainable heartbreak instead of a refuge from reality. Estil had enough unrewarded genius, enough unrequited loves, enough unfulfilled great expectations to last two lifetimes, if not three. Estil's poetry, outside of the one poem picked up in a contest collection when he was a sophomore, could not find a market. His chosen profession, poet, was closed. The love of his life went off to college and married someone else. He never did win the lottery.
"Estil, 'you know who' wants a brandy," the waitress said, setting her tray on the bar. One man in the whole clan of Club 250 regulars drank brandy. Ken kept some cheap stuff in stock for that one customer and the rare occasion someone else might ask for it.
Estil dreamed of brandy. Not the cheap stuff. The real thing. An aged, mellow, deep-amber liquid, in a real snifter. Not, alas, brandy as a pair of jugs, half exposed to the world by a push-up bra, in a Daisy Mae tied up over a sprayed on pair of hot pants.
"Estil," Ken said, "quit your daydreaming and help clear the tables."
Estil knew it never would-never could-happen in Grantville, back then or now, even if there was still a lottery. You could build it but they would not come. New York no longer existed. Estil's dream of being the owner and occasional, casual bartender of an up-scale classy cocktail lounge was safe. He had never once shared it with anyone. The closest he came was the time he got caught reading his second hand copy of a bartender's bible. It told how to make any drink ever conceived of, from a simple classic fifty/fifty Martini to a Rusty Nail or a Hairy Navel. He read every page and remembered every step of every drink, especially those which had ingredients he had never even heard of, much less seen.
****
Someone once saw him reading it and asked, "What in the world are you reading that thing for?"
He answered, "I'm a bartender. I should know these things."
"Est, all you need to know; is whether the beer is cold and whether the shot glass is clean."
"And if someone asks for a Manhattan?"
"It ain't goin' to happen."
"Yeah, well maybe I'll go to New York and open a place of my own."
"When hell freezes over, Est."
****
In the real world Estil got promoted from bus boy, to waiter, to bartender, and-eventually-to bum. Now, magically, another brave new world was here. It was three hundred years older and three hundred years uglier. Estil wanted nothing to do with it.
When Odetta dumped him he was demoted from bum back to bartender. The number of patrons in Club 250 was shrinking. Some were in the army, others were working out of town. So his hours were getting cut. As things got worse, Estil had more time to dream.
****
On the day after Thanksgiving, in the year of Our Lord 1634, Lyndon Johnson showed up at the bar in Club 250.
"Estil, how would you like a short term job?"
"Doin' what?"
"There's been a request from Magdeburg. Someone with more money than sense saw one too many movies while staying at the Higgins Hotel when they were in town. They want to throw an American party and need a cocktail expert."
"I can't do something like that."
"Sure you can. You do a good job organizing wedding receptions. I know you do; I was the best man at two of them. If you can do that, you can run a cocktail party. And, I happen to know you enjoy doing it. You still have that copy of the Bartender's Bible, don't you? Well, make sure you pack it. Look at it this way, you get an all expense-paid trip to Magdeburg, a basic stipend and tips while the government loans out your services."
"I don't want to go out of town. Besides, I'd have to miss work."
"Hey, It's just Magdeburg. That's just a train ride away. And Ken said it would be all right with him if you missed a few days, as slow as things are.
"And," Lyndon repeated the important point, "it really will pay well."
Estil hesitated, "I'd rather not."
"Estil, think about it. It's a good paying gig, doing something I know you enjoy doing. Besides, Ken says you're free so you've got the time off work. Why not do it?"
"Are you sure Ken said it was okay?"
"Yes."
"I really don't want to leave town." Estil hesitated again.
"Hey, it's just to Magdeburg and just for a little bit. One party. How long could that take? And it pays well."
Estil hesitated a third time. "Well, I could use the money."
Lyndon jumped on it. "Good! Then it's settled. I'll pick you up in the morning at eight to get you to the train station on time."
****
The ever-louder, early-morning rapping on the door of the cramped little ancient camper he rented from Ken was followed by a long, slow train ride to Magdeburg to report to Herr von Something-or-other.
By and by, Estil read the words Community Relations on the door. Inside he was greeted with one word by the mandatory "up-and-coming bright young man" behind the desk. "Yes?" The tone unmistakably said, "Why are you bothering me? You are in the wrong place. Go away."
"Shit," Estil said under his breath. He really did not want to deal with a bright young man, especially one with attitude. "My name is Estil Congden. I'm looking for-"
The bright young man's demeanor changed like an avalanche. He was out of his seat, with a handshake ready on his right side, and a suitcase grab ready on his left. "Mr. Congden, do please come in. My name is Victor Hermann. Here, let me take that. Would you like to sit down? Can I get you a cup of coffee? Or would you prefer a nip of brandy to ward off the cold? Forgive me for not recognizing you. You are not quite-" He glanced at Estil's threadbare jeans and worn field jacket. "-what I was expecting."
"Yeah, you were expecting a tuxedo. It's in the suitcase." Before Estil dropped out of high school rather than repeat his senior year due to the suspension arising from the senior prank, the tuxedo was already purchased. His mother had asked him what he would like as a graduation present. He announced he wanted to go to the prom in a tuxedo he owned. He figured he would need one to attend publishing banquets and award ceremonies someday, so he might as well own one. He wore it to work the bar at weddings over the years. He was a bit vain about it still fitting. "It doesn't travel well, so it gets carried instead of worn."
"Oh, certainly, of course," Victor agreed.
The bright young man wanted something. Estil saw no reason to be diplomatic about it, and it certainly seemed that this particular kid was pretty good with English and hillbillies, so he said, "Okay, kid. What do you want?"
"Well, Count von Leiningen-Westerburg has requested an expert on the twentieth-century custom of a cocktail party. His new wife wants to hold one and it seems the count is willing to give her anything she wants."
"That is all very interesting, but it ain't what I meant. Cut the bullshit. What do you want? Not your boss, not some damn uppity muck. What do you want?"
"Well-" Victor could not quite get it out. "That is I was hoping. . . . Oh, never mind. Please have a seat."
Estil stood there with his arms folded over his chest. His body language clearly say
ing, "We are not going to get anything else done until this is taken care of."
In the end, the young bureaucrat spat it out. "Sir, I was hoping . . ." After one last false start, Victor finally said, "Ah . . . do you think you might be able to get me an invitation to the party?"
Estil's face cracked. Having leverage was not something he was used to. The smile in his voice echoed the smile on his face. "Kid, if I've got the power to hand out invitations, then you're in."
****
Victor's boss, Herr von Whatever, was less impressed. "Victor, take Herr Congdon down to the tailors. They are expecting him."
After Victor translated, Estil asked, "A tailor? What for?"
"Some new clothes, of course."
"I don't need new clothes."
Herr von Something-or-other looked Estil down and up then sneered. "Yes, you do," Victor translated.
"I can't pay for a dammed tailor."
"It's covered. His Majesty's government's expert on up-time culture must look the part to be taken seriously. I do not wish to deal with the embarrassment. So you will be provided with a new wardrobe. You can pick your old one up on your way home."
****
Estil was picked up by a coach and six, trimmed in genuine gold leaf, the buttons on the coats of the coachman and footmen and the metal work on the harness were made of silver. The taste, bouquet and texture of the brandy waiting in the carriage said Napoleon, which it could not be for obvious reasons. It had been aged well past five years. A distilled wine must be aged two years to be brandy, and three years to be special and over five to be very special old pale. V.S.O.P. was not something Estil bought with his pocket change, other than in his dreams.
****
Estil's first glance identified Countess von Leiningen-Westerburg as a trophy wife. It seemed a crying shame for such a beautiful young girl to be married to such a dried-up old man. There was the better part of a half century separating their ages. The count did not have time to stay past the briefest of introductions. Estil was left alone with the countess and several servants.
"Mr. Congden, so good of you to come."
Estil could see her taking his measure, even with his surprise at her English skills. I'm a bit older than she pictured, but I look younger than I am. I'm dressed the part to a tee. I'm tall, slim, (at this he smiled) dark-haired, and handsome.
"Watch it boy," his id told his ego, "you're getting plenty cocky. Your mother always said, 'pride goeth before a fall.'"
"Oh shut up," his ego replied.
"You have been told what we wish?" The young countess, Maria, asked.
"An up-time cocktail party."
"This is the first party we are giving since our wedding, which was on the estate. It is very important to me personally. Everything must go well! It is to be a New Years Eve costume party. The theme is a cocktail party in the year 2000, so the guests should come in Grantville formal dress. There will be a dinner and dancing in the ballroom. You will need to talk to the kitchen staff about the details, but the menu has been researched and is in place. We have hired musicians who are ready and able to play up-time dance music. You will instruct the wine steward and his staff in the art of making cocktails. You will look over our preparations, tell us what to change and then make everything run smoothly. The seamstress is hard at work on the sewing machine making new period clothes for the servants."
"Yes, I see," Estil said, then looked over as one of the servants stepped closer.
"Mister Congden, this is Heinrich, our chief steward. He will give you a tour of the facilities and run over the preparations we have already made. Then this evening . . ."
She was almost shy, as if she was doing something a bit naughty. She continued, "Since the count is away, why don't you join me for dinner and we can discuss where we are with the preparations and what we need to do next."
****
When Estil and Heinrich were out of sight, Marie turned to her personal maid and confidant. "What do you think?" she asked.
"I think you had better watch yourself around that one. I saw the way he was looking at you. At least he looks enough like the count to be his brother and he also looks nearly young enough to be his son."
"Anna, you know what this party means to me." This was effectively Marie's coming-out party. She was the younger daughter of someone just barely noble enough to be tolerated. If this went badly, when the count died she might as well find a comfortable convent, unless she managed to give the old man the one thing he wanted: a son.
"Yes, I do," Anna said. "And I know that man has enough brass to be a bell. He looks much like the count. He's a charming devil, certainly. You mark my words, be careful around that one."
****
Heinrich looked at Estil with a face carefully schooled to show nothing at all. Estil's first thought was, Don't play poker with this guy. He'll take the shirt right off your back.
"Shall we start with the kitchen?" Heinrich asked.
"No. I ain't going nowhere's near the kitchen except to scrounge something to eat. The kitchen and the rest of the house and servants is your job and I am going to leave it to you. If you've got any questions, I'll answer them if I can. But mostly I am going to say 'I don't know, ask the expert,' and then I'm going to send them to you."
Heinrich huffed.
Bingo, Estil thought. He ain't at all happy about being upstaged.
"Sir," Heinrich said, "She has made it quite clear. You are in charge."
"I'm in charge?"
"Yes."
"Fine. I just delegated the kitchen and the staff to you."
"Humnf!"
"Look, Heinrich. You know the house and the staff. I don't. My German is just barely passable. If I try to run this shindig, it will fail miserably. So I am delegating what I cannot do to someone who can. When this party is over, I'm gone. When it is all said and done, what do you think I am going to tell the countess?" Heinrich lost his poker face. Estil could see the wheels turning. "Don't bother guessing. I am going to tell her I relied on her staff, mostly on you. I will take my fee and run. You will get the glory." Estil paused. "Or the blame. So, can we get over the pissing contest and work together instead of against each other?" Estil stuck out his hand.
Heinrich smiled and shook hands.
"Now, if that is settled, how can I help?" Estil asked.
****
At dinner, with three servers in earshot, Estil said, "You have an excellent staff. They have everything in hand. But there are some things we need to discuss. The instructions they have been given just do not fit the party you are trying to have."
"How so?" Maria asked.
"Let's start with the menu and the service. You've told them you want chili in paper bowls followed by hamburgers wrapped in paper and french fries in paper bags. I had a sample at lunch and the cook has it down pat." This was less than completely true. The fries were soggy, and it was clear they had never seen a hamburger. It needed help. The bun was toasted on both sides not just grilled on the face. The meat was overdone, as well. "This is the wrong menu for a formal dinner."
"But this is an authentic up-time menu," she objected. "And we've already purchased the place service."
"Come summer, have a barbeque picnic and use them then. Have your guests come in casual dress. Hamburgers and fries are finger foods. You don't use silverware. You pick it up with your hands, like fried chicken. For a formal dinner you want silverware. I suggest you start with french onion soup. Come as close as you can to a green salad, it will probably be coleslaw unless you can find some good lettuce. Have your potatoes baked or mashed, depending upon the meat. Beef Wellington is a good choice, or beef stroganoff. If you have the beef Wellington, you can have a linguini pasta dish with it."
"But," the young countess replied, "what you have named is French and English and Russian or Italian. This is supposed to be an American party."
"Madam, let me tell you a secret. There is no such thing as American cuisine. Culturally, Ameri
cans are great thieves. It comes with the language. It all came from somewhere else."
"But, then, it is just another party!"
"Being dressed up in unusual clothes is going to be odd enough. Let them have comfortable food. If you want an American desert, have ice cream sundaes. You still have time to rent a couple of ice cream makers from Grantville. We can get into something really strange after dinner with the cocktails and the mixed drinks. The same thing goes with the dancing. Well over half of the music needs to be things people are used to. You can have a few exotic dances, but don't expect people to enjoy strange new dances they don't know. They will just stand around and watch while a few young people make fools of themselves. You can play a waltz, but if people don't know how to dance it, they won't do it. We have time to teach three or four young couples how to waltz. Settle for that this time, and have the rest of the dancing be familiar. The waltz will catch on. Actually, it is catching on elsewhere already, so you will be remembered as the first to introduce it locally. It might even get you in the history books."
"The waltz is an American dance?"
"As much as any dance is. It came from Vienna in the seventeen hundreds and swept the world. Trust me, you can't go wrong with a waltz. Get me half-a-dozen young couples and I will put your name in the middle of a dance fad that will be around long after you're gone. With any luck and a good publicity campaign, this can go down in history as the party that introduced the waltz to the world."
****
"Square dancing?" a dumbfounded Estil asked the chief musician. "Where in the hell did you ever find out about square dancing?"
"Well I went to the library in Grantville and-"
Estil cut him off. "It don't matter. I can't teach it, and, no, I can't call it. Besides, no one wants to learn square dancing anyway. Go and buy some waltz music. It might take several days, but we've got time."
Estil started teaching the waltz to three couples, which grew to six, including the count and countess, and then ten couples by the time New Year's rolled around. Along the way, Estil spent a fair amount of time with the count in the billiards room.
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