The Good Servants

by Johnny Brennan

  “One for the road.”

  “... and all for one.”

  We only had one shot glass so we went in rapid-fire rounds.

  Spud, shot!

  Me, shot!

  Brian, shot!

  Bootso, shot!

  Tony, shot!

  We repeated this about three times in quick succession, and that’s the last thing I remember about Germany.

  Next thing I know I’m being woken violently. Fuck me! I didn’t even know I was asleep. I opened my eyes slowly and then sat up suddenly. I didn’t know where or when I was. There was cold dark air, bright light and a stern face. I saw Brian and Spud beside me looking wrecked. Shit! It was dark outside, but where the fuck was inside? There was a mean looking guy in a pretty strict looking uniform saying ‘passport, passport’. Was I dreaming? I decided to comply until I knew what the fuck was going on. I appeared to be wearing my coat so I delved into my inside pocket and gave him my passport, then he disappeared.

  “Shit, Foy, you’re some heavy sleeper.”

  “FUCK ME!! Where the fuck are we?”

  “We’re just arriving in Croatia.”

  “CROATIA??? What the fuck are we doing in Croatia??”

  “What the fuck are ye on about? It was your idea.”

  “Yeah!” says Spud with a sarcastic slobber, “let’s go to Croatia, these guys are great, we’ll have great craic, lots of women, blah blah blah.”

  Oh ... My ... God!!!

  Spud and Brian were sitting up. Brian looked like I felt, recently roused. Spud had stayed awake, talking to Darko and drinking onwards and upwards. He was gee-eyed drunk and couldn’t see straight. He appeared to be talking to my left shoulder so I knew he was seeing more than one of me. Brian was propping him up like a ventriloquist’s dummy. I hoped we didn’t have to get out and stand up straight or we could be in trouble.

  I looked outside and we were definitely at a border of some kind. A big sign beside the van said ‘Republika Hrvatska’.

  “Republika H-what?-ska?? Fuck me! We’re being people trafficked!”

  “Darko, where the fuck is Havaaska?”

  “That’s Croatia, in my language.”

  “Ahaaaa ... like Eire.”

  “You spell Croatia with a ‘H’??”

  By the time the guard came back with our passports we’d fully woken up from the fresh night air and the constant drone of engines all around. We were shitting ourselves that there would be some problem or other but he just handed the passports to us and walked away. Great!

  I continued to get my head around the fact that I had just woken up in a different country to the one I’d fallen asleep in.

  “Hey, where’s Tony?”

  “Tha’ fucker didn’t wanna come, the fucker.”

  “What? He stayed there? But there are still three chapters left!”

  “Yeah, he’ll go home tomorrow, you said goodbye to him n’ all, you don’ member antin’?”

  “He said he’ll see us next Tuesday.”

  “Why? What’s next Tuesday?”

  “No idea, he just says to me, see you next Tuesday an’ tha’ was it,”

  “Oh yeah,” I laughed. This was an old joke of ours, “I think he meant ‘C U Next Tuesday’!”

  “Wha? Cunt!”

  “Exactly.”

  “y’wha?”

  “Cunt.”

  “Who me? Screw you.”

  “What the fuck are you drinking?”

  “A bit-o-bite-bitte?”

  “NO!! ... a better-bit-o-bite-bitte!”

  “Here, give us some, ye hungry see you next Tuesday.”

  I was starting to get used to the idea of going to Croatia. We were planning to stay with Darko a day or two then get a train back, or something like that, actually I didn’t really care. Someone had got a load of beers while I was sleeping, so I had warm beer to cut the better-bit-o-bite-bitte and a grand new adventure awaited us.

  We set off on the final run to Zagreb. We finished the beers and helped Spud to the end of that bottle to celebrate. Then promptly fell asleep again. The sun was just coming up.

  It was daylight. We were taken into a flat somewhere, I didn’t know who or what or why or when or how, but I fell straight onto the first soft flat thing that was put in front of me, and there I stayed.

  I woke up again, feeling dreadful again. I was losing contact with time and space. Where was I? When was I? We were in a flat in Zagreb. It was early evening I reckoned.

  “Wow,” says Spud, looking around him expecting to find I don’t know what, “I’ve never been anywhere with a ‘Z’ in the name before.”

  ...

  “The zoo.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Chapelizod.”

  “Never been there.”

  Bootso came back from the shop with more fucking beers.

  “Why do you lads keep giving us alcohol? You know what will happen.”

  “Yes, Ha Ha Ha, you are like cats ... if you leave a cat alone with a lot of food it will eat until it is dead ... we want to see if you are like that with beers, Ha Ha Ha.”

  “Well, I can save ye the trouble, lads … Miaow!! Ah Ha Ha Ha!!”

  We all sat and opened the beers, then cheered each other and drank breakfast.

  “Lads,” began Darko gravely and starting to show signs of a Dublin accent, “we think you are going to Split.”

  “Hajduk Split?”

  “Da da da, Hi-Duck-Split.”

  “Listen this, there is no place to stay here. This flat belong to my sister and she don’t want four drunken Irish sleeping on the floor ... so, Bootso is driving to Split tonight and he has space to stay there, and, when you go to Ireland is better to go from Zadar. That is one place near to Split.

  “Another drive? All night? Groan!”

  “The airport is in Split?”

  “No, in Zadar, you can fly to Dublin for cheap from Zadar, one brother of my friend work in Dublin, he drive to Zadar when he went to Dublin.”

  “Ok, let’s Split.”

  We decided that Bootso should rest for a bit and go later, rather than leaving straight away and arriving in the wee hours.

  That also gave us non-driving personnel a chance to sample the local brews, and to cure ourselves ... again!

  We cooked some pasta and got more beers so by the time we went out we were well sated and already slightly wobbly on the legs.

  We’d all got some kip in the afternoon but were constantly topping ourselves up so we were still fairly groggy. We went into the centre on a tram and found a small place with wooden tables. Zagreb was pretty grey and communistic, in that it had huge impressive expanses for motorways, squares and greenery. The people didn’t look dissimilar to Irish in a lot of ways, except that the women were only fucking gorgeous, so when we sat down to a round of beers we felt right at home. The beer, Oh-zukky-sko wasn’t up to much, but improved with quantity.

  We chatted with Darko about the town and what it was like to live there. He was a good story teller, had a great sense of humour and was a perfect host, so he kept us entertained, laughing and in beers.

  Three wild Irishmen and a crazy Croat.

  We visited a couple more places along a strip of bars and cafés, then we headed back to wake Bootso and hit the road. Nicely steamed again.

  We were pushing ourselves to the limit and I began to wonder just how much more alcohol I could take.

  We picked up a tray of cans for the journey at a petrol station near the flat and headed back.

  Bootso was up and refreshed. We loaded up the van and said our goodbyes and thanks to Darko. Sound head, Darko.

  It was around midnight as we set off.

  This time Bootso was driving so he was less fun.

  “Why do you guys like driving at night? Is this like a vampire van?”

  “No, this van belong to my brother and it must be in Split tomorrow morning, so I have to drive it tonight. Believe me, I don’t want to do this now.”


  “At least we saw some of Zagreb, nice place, some cute places in the centre.”

  “Ah, Zagreb is industrial city, grey and ugly and the people have their noses in the air ... but you will see, Split is a wonderful place, for me it is a paradise.”

  “Great, I can’t wait.”

  I climbed in the back with the lads for a bit. Spud was singing ‘Take her up the Monto’ ad nauseum ...

  “Oh give it a rest Spud.”

  He switched to ‘Brown Girl in the Ring, tra la la la la’.

  Brian was slugging his beer, and in a happy mood.

  “I’m feeling good about this. It should work out grand, d’ye think?”

  “I’m going to reserve judgement ... Let’s just say I’m cautiously pessimistic.”

  “Ah c’mon, you have to be optimistic or you’re fucked ... pessimism is a self fulfilling prophecy.”

  “Yeah, and optimism is bad luck.”

  “No, it’s superstition that’s bad luck ... anyway, I think we can see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “Yeah? It’s probably another train!”

  “... or maybe a few days in Split and then back to Dublin.”

  We both sighed, and looked up at Spud, who had stopped singing.

  He looked confused, pulling a series of faces that would put one in mind of Stan Laurel.

  “What’s he doing?” Brian whispered.

  “Oh my God! He’s thinking.”

  “I know, I can smell him from here.”

  Ah Ha Ha Ha! We broke our bollixes laughing at that one.

  “What’s up Spud?” shouted Brian over the din of the van.

  “Do you reckon Man Friday was Robinson Crusoe’s bitch?”

  “That’s what you were thinking about?”

  “I mean, they were alone on that island for years, that puts a strong case for prison sex at the very least, they don’t tell ye these things in school.”

  “My turn in the front Foy, is it?”

  The drive was pretty boring except for the new beer every half hour. It wasn’t until a couple of hours in that the mountains and countryside started to look more exotic. There was a bright moon and it shone off the mountains to great effect.

  I woke up at a pit stop with a right pain in the neck. Bootso needed caffeine and we needed to stretch our legs. We went into an all-night truck stop. I looked around and went back to the van, dazed. I took another beer and waited. Spud bought a cold beer ‘cos he was sick of the warm ones we had left. It was just after three in the morning.

  “Remind me never to travel two nights running in the back of a van, please.”

  “Will do ... did you sleep?”

  “Ah, just a bit, when I can.”

  We got back on the road and settled in to try to get some drunken shut-eye.

  “Hey, listen,” said Bootso, “we meet each other in Zagreb, ok? My brother doesn’t know his van went to Germany, Ha Ha Ha.”

  “Ok, Bootso, nice one.”

  I was mostly awake for the final leg of the journey. The mountain on the left rose high to block the moonlight which climbed around it and reflected on the sea to the right. I started to feel like I was going somewhere beautiful. Maybe I was dead, maybe we’d all died from that better-bit-o-bite-bitte in Heidelberg. Maybe Darko and Bootso were like grim reapers taking us up to heaven in a Hiace van. Zagreb was a temporary and pleasant enough purgatory ... and soon we’d ride a moonbeam ... over the candy mountain to ... I fell asleep at last.

  We arrived in Split near five. We drove through the town to the centre and parked the van on the ‘reeva’, the seafront. There were market stalls being set up for truck loads of melons, and fishermen selling their early morning catch. There was an ancient looking palace to the right and the seafront to the left. Islands bobbed on the horizon as the sun dragged itself out of bed. I wished I wasn’t so tired and drunk. The place was indeed heavenly and the air was fresh and salty. I suddenly had a feeling that I wasn’t in Europe anymore.

  We walked along the docks, past all the passenger ships and deserted street stalls towards some houses at the end. The place was lively for the time it was, but all I had in mind was a good morning’s sleep. We climbed a shit-load of stairs to the flat and had to be quiet because Bootso’s grand-mother was asleep. The place was dark but we found purchase in any bed or sofa shown to us and fell sound asleep, stinking of alcohol.

  I woke in my clothes again and found myself next to Spud. It was still dark but I could hear noise outside and sunlight was sneaking in somewhere. There were shutters up and so the room was still fairly dark. I creaked into action and stumbled towards the window. I found a hook and unlatched it then swung back the shutters and stood there dumbstruck.

  As the dock we walked earlier had curled around to the front of the reeva, I was now looking across the bay to the front of the city. The old palace façade was still in place and was being propped up by more recent buildings built into it. In front of that was the reeva, a wide pedestrian area dotted with palm trees, cafés and people milling up and down. Just in front of the reeva was the sea, with only a small wall and benches along the edge. To the left of the city was a large hill covered in trees, rising gently and then disappearing behind into the sea. In the foreground of all this were the passenger liners coming and going, loading and emptying.

  “Wow! What a fuckin’ place!! Spud, look at this.”

  “Whoa, nice view! Where the fuck are we? Constantinople?”

  “Let’s go see if the others are up.”

  We went outside and the kitchen was buzzing. Bootso and Brian were making plans. Bootso’s grand-ma was making breakfast. She spoke Russian and German, though not a word of English. She smiled at us kindly and looked like a good woman. We ate up hungrily and then Bootso promised to take us around for a few hours.

  We cleaned up, changed clothes and generally made ourselves as presentable as we could under trying circumstances, and then headed out to soak up the strange new atmosphere. It was a beautiful day, with a bright warm sun and almost clear blue sky. The city was lively and smelt of fish. We passed through a huge fresh fish market in the town and then we stank of fish too. Half of the fish looked like aliens from space rather than lunch and some were just downright scary. The palace was like another world, big squares, cobbled streets and ancient walls with shops and cafés built into them. The peristil is a small square with an 1800 year old theatre at the front, lined with pillars and sphinxes, and a church bell tower rising high on the left. It was far from this we were reared.

  “Wow, what a place!”

  “Yes, we have concerts here in summer, all this is ancient Roman. If you buy a Split postcard then this is what you see.”

  The whole centre was a labyrinth of little lanes opening out onto big marbled piazzas. I was starting to feel lost in time as well as space, like I was roaming around ancient Rome. I wondered if there was any chance of a peeled grape and a blow job.

  We went to an exchange office to get some Croatian Koona and then Bootso took us to a bar, God bless ‘im! It was a rum rundown terrace hidden away in the maze of the palace, but with a view down to the reeva, out the sea and away to the islands, all seen through three huge barred arches.

  Just the ticket!

  “Bootso, how do you say ‘four beers please’?”

  “Chetri peeveh molim.”

  “Chetri peeveh molim,” says Brian to the approaching barwoman, who about turns and heads back without a word.

  “Oh, this is easy.”

  “You were right Bootso, this is a savage place!”

  “... an’ the fuckin’ women man, Jaysus fuckin’ ...”

  “Ha Ha Ha! Yes, Split girls have the reputation for being very beautiful.”

  We drank our beers enjoying the view of Bratch, the island and Marianne, the green hill.

  I straight away felt all the alcohol in my system resurrect itself and I quickly felt more than a little drunk, so we had another round to reinforce this curious sensation
.

  Bootso could only stay with us a little while. We had the feeling that he had to go see a man about a dog, if you know what I mean. He called a friend of his who he said liked a drink and would keep us company for a few hours.

  Harvey was actually called ‘Hurvoye’, but that quickly became Harvey. He arrived on the terrace during our second beer. We said our hellos then let him and Bootso catch up for a while. He was a little older than I’d expected, early forties maybe? He was a little ragged and stooped with long arms and legs, almost insect-like, an impression that was aided by powerful round specs magnifying his eyes. He had a big grin and was actively interested in everything. He and Bootso chatted for a bit but they quickly switched into English for our benefit, which was nice of them. Bootso arranged to meet us later and then headed off.

  “Ok,” said Harvey, “one more beer here? Or we go?”

  “Erm, both! and in that order,” said Brian with a mischievous grin.

  “Ha Ha Ha, yes, Bootso told me about you guys ... MAAAREY! Chetri peeveh.”

  Harvey had an American accent, from watching too many movies he said, and he liked to talk.

  “So, you guys are from Ireland? Where in Ireland?”

  “Dublin.”

  “Ah, it sounds like a wonderful place, I would like to go there sometime, hey, maybe you know a guitar player called Mario? He is in Dublin I think.”

  “He plays Irish music?”

  “No, jazz, but very good jazz, not shit jazz ... hey, you have your instruments? Loodilo! Maybe we can play something later? I play the didgeridoo.”

  “Ah Ha Ha,”

  “Why is it funny? You don’t like the didgeridoo?” he was expecting a different reaction.

  “No, it’s great, and it’s not bad with Irish music ... but a friend of ours was playing in a pub in Ireland once and an Australian tourist came in and started to play his didgeridoo, and at the end of the set our friend says to him ‘sorry, what’s that thing there that you’re playing?’ and the guy says ‘it’s called a didgeridoo, mate’, and our friend says to him ‘yeah? Well didgeridon’t!!’ Heh Heh Heh.”