Dinner with the Advocate (Part II)

Even though the hall filled very quickly, two tables remained empty and among the prepared cutlery there was a very large and legible note: TABLE RESERVED. 

Constantly asked about this, the waiters answered that this eight person table was awaiting some special delegation, which would arrive at any moment. 

When the maitre’ d showed up with a miniature flag, which with a very serious face he precisely and with importance placed at the center of the table and its arranged silverware and wine glasses, it evoked the atmosphere of a grand, elegant world. 

None of the guests would be able to identify what country the flag symbolized. Finally the delegation arrived. They went statesmanlike through the center of the dance floor, as the orchestra was at the moment not playing, and when they sat at the table it turned out that it was three Bulgarian comrades, three local comrades and two local comradettes. 

The Bulgarians were easily recognizable. All three had on identical, strangely tailored black suits with characteristically gray pinstripes of a typical tennis material. The strange tailoring rested on the fact that to fairly short and tight suit pants, despite that at the very bottom the pants were very thin, they suddenly widened higher up, forming something in the shape of some funny Turkish sharyvallies. 

Moreover, each had on identical light yellow shoes with lightly upturned pointed ends, probably all of the same size. They looked as if they were bought to grow into. They were different only in their shirts. 

One had a typical white shirt, buttoned to his neck but with no tie, the second a white turtleneck, the third the same, only that the front of the shirt was sown in some folk, probably Bulgarian, pattern. 

The local comrades in their outfits and their grain and beet nature did not deviate from the standard of mid-rung party apparatchiks, and the local comradettes were also fatally dressed, in skirts and white blouses, with horrible shoes and dull, greasy, badly combed hair. 

They were not a pleasant sight for the table either. Moreover the Bulgarians were decorated with various medals and signets, which were dominated by the motifs of the red star or the sickle and the hammer, or both together. 

Even though one of the local fellows was supposed to be the translator, the conversations and the toasts were conducted mainly in the Russian language, which used by this crowd could not be the language of Lermontov, Tolstoy or Pushkin, but what was important was that they all understood each other quite well. 

It was almost nine when we arrived at dessert. 

The conversation continued to form with difficulty, and with the dancing every spoken word was silenced by the nearby orchestra. Moreover, from the international table came an ever louder series of outbursts, shouts and even song. Every few moments another toast. 

No one was particularly interested in eating at that table, but the alcohol flowed freely, and the waiter open successive half liter bottles non-stop. In contrast to the local comrades, who went balls to the wall, the Bulgarians, when it came to drinking, I would say, were a bit more distant. 

From time to time one of the comradettes accepted with uninhibited joy a Bulgarian’s invitation to the dance floor. Each such dance, irrespective if it were tango, foxtrot, slowfox or waltz playing, as interpreted by the Bulgarian comrades was always a kind of completely irresponsible shepherd’s gambol, and the comradettes, turned every which way, left the dance floor excited, but also pretty worn out, as best seen by the large blots of sweat under their armpits on their party nylon white blouses. We even had a pretty good spectacle, which as it were was just beginning.

When I glanced over at the bar, I got the feeling that I saw a certain person there that I knew, but unfortunately because of the romantic twilight it was difficult to get a good look at anything. 

I decided eventually to check it out, because if I were right, my plans for this evening would diametrically change. In the meantime at the international table one of the local comrades, who looked like the youngest, was going through, as best as you could call it, a crisis. 

His face was by turns blushed and then pale. In a disconnected move he loosened his red tie and undid some of the top buttons of his shirt. Suddenly he desperately stood and, aiming to exit the hall, energetically moved to the front. 

Unfortunately, after five steps his legs buckled and with a dull, absent face he landed on his knees, and crawled like some quadruped with his hands across the dance floor. The whole table jumped to help him, wanting if possible to handle the situation discretely. In the context of international proletarian cooperation one of the local comrades, together with one of the Bulgarian comrades, grasped the delinquent strongly by his arms, to carry him to the remote restroom. 

The delinquent briefly lost motor functions of his lower limbs, such that the comrades dragged him with bent feet across the dance floor and the entire hall. It was obvious that he was swallowing his saliva very intensely, and from his left nostril blithely hung a pale green, shining, pulsing booger of at least several centimeters. 

At the international table remained two Bulgarian comrades, one local comrade and the two local comradettes. Meanwhile I went to check out what was going on at the bar. 

Yeah, I wasn’t mistaken, at the very end of the bar with a modest drink sat Sokal. 

When we warm-heartedly greeted each other, he said that he had just a short while ago arrived and in a moment would head to the boys. So we’ll see each other soon. I returned to our table. 

Because it was almost ten, the responsible advocate of the Hares, having tomorrow after all a very heavy day, and still thanking me for my assistance and giving me his address and phone number, slowly bid his farewells. 

At the international table the movement was unbelievable. The dancing continued at its best, and someone was constantly coming or going. Between the table and the restroom became a sort of bridge, like between the not yet so long ago Soviet-blockaded West Berlin and the rest of allied-occupied Germany. 

I gave Bronco twenty thousand for the round and told him to go home in the clothes he had on him because he could keep them. This suited him very well. 

When I was finally definitively leaving, in the carmine velvet adorned lobby, in the vicinity of the pay phone, between the reception desk and the hotel elevator, I noticed a lightly drunk Bulgarian comrade. 

He was the one who wore the patterned shirt and with the proficiency of a Balkan goatsucker tried at any cost to get to the somewhat sexy party tits of the decidedly drunker local comradette and with unambiguous intention entice her to his luxury hotel room.

I was the last from our group to leave the hotel.