In a Tavern on a Cold Winter's night

In A Tavern On A Cold Winter's night

by Bob Liddil

Vladimir Constantinescu kept his back to the wall behind the farthest corner table in the tavern from the door. This table was also the most poorly lit, being afforded only one small candle, rather than a lamp as were those more centrally adjacent to the long polished bar that dominated the room. But then, Vladimir, by his very nature was a kinsman to the dark and this arrangement was in fact, exactly how he liked it.

Vladimir was a gentleman of means. Of that there could be no doubt. The richness of his cloak, the manner in which he bore himself, all bespoke of wealth, of power and of importance. Yet despite all that outward grandeur, Vladimir chose to inhabit this particular tavern, which was neither an effete establishment catering to the moneyed few, nor was it a raucous bawdy house jangling to poorly tuned piano music and prowling ladies of the evening. It was simply a safe and quiet place where someone might enjoy his bere in comfort and seclusion, if that be his choice.

Cristofor Kogalniceaunu opened the door to the tavern and quickly slipped inside. The wind swirled a flurry of snowflakes behind him as he hurried to close the door. The barkeep silently nodded acknowledgement at his entry and reached for two empty glasses, which he efficiently filled to the brim with beer. Cristofor stomped his feet thrice to remove the snow from his boots, then removed his cloak and hung it on a hook near the door provided for that purpose. The barkeep, by then had placed the two foaming glasses on a tray and handed them off to a barmaid, who trailed the newly arrived gentleman all the way to the table in the back, where awaited Vladimir.

Christofor bowed slightly before the other man in an obvious gesture of respect. Vladimir bid him to be seated with a nod.

"Ce mai faci?" Christofor said aloud, in Romanian, as he seated himself opposite Vladimir. He repeated in English, “How are you?”

Vladimir responded, “Mulţumesc, bine.” And then, in English, “Fine, thank you.”

An untutored observer might have mistaken the exchange as being between a foreigner and a native Romanian. That would have been an error, because the two were in fact, old friends who met here each night for beer and conversation.

“Your English is impeccable, Captain” Vladimir commented as the barmaid set down the glasses.

“As is yours, my Lord.” Christofor replied.

The barmaid withdrew from the table quickly, knowing from having been told, that her gratuity depended her ability to keep the beer flowing, and her immediate absence between deliveries.

Vladimir raised his glass for a toast.

“Here’s to Werewolves,” he proposed. “May hunting be good at the rising of the full moon.”

Christofor likewise raised his own glass. “Here’s to Vampires,” he countered. “May the light of day never touch your faces.”

Back at the bar, the barmaid spoke idly aloud, in her native Romanian, “I wonder what those two talk about, night after night? And why in English, of all languages?”

The barkeep overheard her musing and said sternly, “Better not to pry into the affairs of gentlemen, or soldiers. No good can come of it.”

But neither the tone of his admonition nor his words dissuaded her. As the evening wore on, she became more emboldened in lingering, hoping to catch a phrase or two that she understood. She had been to University for a time and actually studied English. Eventually, Vladimir invited her to join him sitting down, whereupon, she ordered a bere for herself and charged it to his tab.

The evening wore on. In the corner, the barmaid was quite drunk, though the same could not be said for either of the gentlemen, despite copious consumption. Between the two, an unspoken decision had long since been made. It would be Vladimir who would escort the lady home, deference on the part of Christofor whose duties were immediate and pressing.

The barkeep nodded as the three passed him on the way to the door and expressed nothing as the barmaid shot him a parting, defiant wink over her shoulder. She’d bagged the rich one tonight. He polished the glass in his hand meticulously, as though there would be an inspection, watching as they disappeared into the snowy night, closing the door behind them.

“Can’t keep good help.” He muttered in English, then laughed at his own joke, pulled himself a tall glass of beer and allowed a moment to reflect. Then he reached under the bar and retrieved a well-worn hand lettered sign. In Romanian, it read, “Barmaid wanted.” And underneath was added, in English, “No experience required.”

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