Zula (Part II)

I have to return now to my passionate relations, suddenly brutally interrupted by the priest, when Zula was going to the capital and I intently wanted to accompany her. 

When we left from the compartment to the corridor, she whispered while kissing my ear, for me not to travel. The train had just begun to move, but I knew that the next station, still in this town, was exactly ten minutes away. Not only that, it worked out that when I was waiting for the taxi, I was making my way just to the vicinity of this next station. For now, not reacting at all to her persuasion, I stood by my idea, to carry her bags in the capital and the whole time we kissed, until Zula took the initiative into her hands and laid out a concrete proposal. 

“If you stay, silly, then wait for me the day after tomorrow at ten and some minutes for the express, on which I’ll be coming back. From the station, we can go straight to your place. Get everything ready, we will have a lot of time to ourselves. Remember, the day after tomorrow at the main platform.” 

“And who will carry your bags?” I asked. 

“I am sufficiently strong,” Zula laughed, “almost as strong as your Uncle Apollinari’s mare.” 

I got off.

The next two days, exactly fifty six hours, I spent in a heightened state of activity, discretion, and spending. When in the especially reserved taxi we rode from the station to my place, despite the monstrous poverty in this country ravaged by war and communist government, everything on my end was to a t. 

As to food, I had prepared: jellied fish, pate, black caviar and red caviar, smoked salmon, iridescent fillet mignon cooked rare, ham, roast beef served cold, cheeses, not to mention already sauces, horse radish and other dressings. For alcohol: a few top-shelf vodkas, white and red wine plus champagne. 

I won’t recount how much this all cost but I briefly had some money, which I could invest care-free, and Zula was very much worth this investment. Figuring the evening might start with vodka, this was the trend at the time, and being almost certain that in this discipline Zula could be much better than me, I desperately contrived to somehow secure myself before the eventual physiological destruction which would be caused in my unaccustomed body by strong alcohol. I even had on this matter a few consultations with various people. 

Unfortunately, the advice that really brought it home for me was given by a certain idiot. This idiot swore that he knew a guy, supposedly he was a butcher, famous for holding his liquor strongly, and this butcher, before pouring alcoholic libations, and this he did quite frequently, he always drank three-quarters of a glass of warm melted lard. I did this just before leaving for the station. Already on the platform, when I was picking up Zula at the train, I felt fatal. 

In the taxi, it was even worse. 

Zula, who despite the troubles of a long journey, looked well and adorable, a few times mindfully asked if there was anything wrong with me. Knowing well what was upsetting me, I feigned that it was just nerves, because the entire time I was very anxious as to whether she would arrive. 

When at last we made it to my place, in desperate anticipation that perhaps right at this moment this would knock me off my feet, from nervous march I immediately poured two healthy glasses of the best vodka, explaining that we had to warm up because after all it was cold on the road from the taxi to the house. 

As we discussed the toast, I got hit with an acute attack in my torso, the so-called baboon, and barely made it out to the terrace in time to throw up. The embarrassment was gigantic. I was unable to do anything but admit everything to a shocked, angry, horrified, putting on her fur coat, Zula, who nevertheless, displaying a great instinct for care, again took the situation completely into her hands, reanimated me in every possible way, such so that in a relatively short time, signaling after all a young and healthy body, I returned to form.