Exclusive - Fable with Turkish Coffee by Rhys Hughes

May 30th, 2008 by Jay | Filed under Book, Excerpt, Fantasy.

Fable with Turkish Coffee

Lester Spigot, the camel driver from Istanbul, and Crypto Modo, who had secret humps of his own, were friends once. That was during a long hot summer in Patara, birthplace of Saint Nicholas, the blessed patron of merchants, virgins, scholars, pawnbrokers, chocolate logs and wrapping paper. Legend has it that the saint’s first present was a purse of gold to the daughter of a poor man who was left without a dowry. In fact, it was a stone wrapped in a leaf.

Patara is a dusty, rocky sort of town, dawn-stirred with cockerel crowings, goat bleatings and dog yappings. The road winds down from the hills, passes between cafés and fairy-lit taverns clustered like olive stones on a saucer, and descends to the white sand beach, one of the longest in the world. The ruins of the ancient city are entered through a massive triple arched gateway, where it is dark and there are no more bars. Meanwhile, the warbling of the imam’s call to prayer floats on the still air from pitted mosque.

Lester Spigot had driven his turbocharged camel all the way down the Turquoise Coast, pausing only in Dalyan to dally with loggerhead turtles, and now he was tired and thirsty. He switched off his ignition, removed his seatbelt and climbed down from the saddle. He made his way to the Traveller’s Bar, a muddy and shady place covered by a tarpaulin and occupied mostly by thin cats. He ordered tea with sugar, lit a broken cigarette and wiped the dust and sweat of the road from his brow with a napkin. In the corner, a sallow figure leaned forward, stubbly chin jutting at an inquiring angle.

After some minutes of this jutting, Lester began to feel uneasy. The man was staring at him with infinitely sad, luminous eyes and his face seemed contorted with some ineffable pain. Finally Lester could contain himself no longer and he asked the mysterious stranger to stop looking at him. Immediately, the man shook his head in refusal. Lester squinted and asked again, more firmly this time. Once more the man shook his head. When this happened a third time, Lester knew the fellow was trying to make a fool of him.

Lester grew angry. The blood boiled in his skull. He had lost much of his patience long before reaching Fethiye, let alone Patara, and he could find little to amuse him in the stranger’s attitude. So he took up the tiny silver spoon from his glass of tea and proceeded to beat the man across the head with it. Back and forth the spoon flew, with rapid calculated strokes, while the man desperately attempted to articulate some form of protest. But Lester was firm. Soon the spoon was bent and twisted and the man’s lips trembled and a large tear crawled its salty way down one of his cheeks.

At this the proprietress, a huge woman with the fists of a man, rushed up and cried, “Ayip, ayip! — Shame, shame!” And she removed the bent spoon from Lester’s grip, shaking off the crimson droplets. Then she added, “Leave him alone. Mister Modo comes from an unlucky family and it’s not fair to add to his worries. His brothers, Pseudo and Quasi, already do enough of that.”

“He kept shaking his head at me,” growled Lester.

And now the man spoke. “Yes, but in sympathy, rather than opposition to your request. I can see you have come far and are very thirsty. I was in the same situation when I arrived here more than twelve years ago. I recognise a fellow spirit.”

The proprietress had departed as abruptly as she had appeared and Lester felt safe enough to pursue the conversation. “I fail to see how your case relates to mine.”

The man sighed. “You have just consumed a glass of tea. Because of your extreme thirst, you will soon want another drink but if you keep drinking tea you will shortly feel ill. The tea here is very strong and an overdose of caffeine is never pleasant. The logical outcome is that you will order other kinds of drink, and that’s how your problems will begin. Thus it was with me!”

Lester was intrigued and sat down facing the man. They introduced themselves formally and Lester now learned some of the tragedy of his new friend’s existence. Half his troubles concerned his brothers. Pseudo pretended to have humps but did not; Quasi seemed to have them but had none; Crypto appeared to be humpless but was in fact riddled with them, all hidden on the inside. Lester expressed a measure of sympathy. Crypto dismissed it with a wave and confessed to being more concerned with the other half of his troubles.

“The drinks in this place,” he clarified.

“Well I am still thirsty,” Lester admitted. “Perhaps I shall order just a simple glass of water.”

“There’s no water here,” Crypto said.

“Then I shall order wine. I can see bottles of wine stacked behind the bar.” And he was about to call the proprietress when Crypto placed a restraining hand on his arm.

“Buying wine here is a big mistake. I tried that a long time ago. Allow me to demonstrate. Watch!”

Lester saw a bottle of wine standing at the far end of the table. Crypto filled an empty glass and raised it to his mouth. Before he could taste it, a dreadful creature appeared from nowhere and inserted a vile paw between his mouth and the rim of the glass. This paw was covered in slime. So was the rest of the creature. Lester realised the beast was a female dog but its thick luminous coating of mucus, goo and gunk turned it into something diabolical.

Crypto lowered the glass to the table, but the creature remained by his feet until he poured the wine back into the bottle. Then it was gone and Lester cried in amazement:

“Why was it so intent on stopping you from drinking?”

“That was the Ooze Hound,” said Crypto. “I bet you thought the Ooze Puss was awful enough? The Ooze Hound is worse. Her bark is runnier than her bite! No drop of wine will pass my lips while she exists to prevent it. Nor am I able to spill any on the ground. That vintage is destined to remain inside the bottle!”

“But why?” Lester repeated.

Crypto smiled thinly. “Are you not aware of the proverb? In this bar all proverbs come true.”

“Which proverb?” Lester asked.

“A bitch in slime saves wine!” recited Crypto.

Lester digested this carefully. “I’ve heard something along those lines,” he admitted. “In the light of what has just occurred, I think I’ll order some ale instead.”

Crypto blinked. “Ale in Turkey? Wouldn’t you prefer a crisp lager beer to the soapy dark kind?”

“But ale is the only kind on offer,” replied Lester, nodding at the bar. “There are no lagers on display. I suppose the proprietress imports ale from a country like England.”

“Not from there,” said Crypto ominously.

“Are you trying to dissuade me from drinking it?” Lester asked.

Crypto reached into a pocket and withdrew a bottle of the same ale that stood in rows behind the bar. From his other pocket he pulled out a clean glass. Then he unscrewed the top of the bottle and swiftly poured the contents into the glass. Childish and sarcastic giggles issued from the thick liquid. Lester frowned as he listened. No doubt about it, the drink was laughing at him! In sober fury he reached for the gleeful ale and began swallowing it down.

A second later he yelped and spat it all back into the glass, his tongue hanging out, steam issuing from the gaps between his teeth. “It scalded me! It’s too hot!”

“Almost at boiling point,” agreed Crypto.

“Then I’ll wait for it to cool,” gasped Lester.

“That will never occur. It will retain its heat indefinitely,” said Crypto above the incessant giggles.

“But why? And how?” hissed Lester.

“Because of the proverb,” declared Crypto.

“Which proverb?” Lester croaked.

“Ale that titters is not cold!” recited Crypto.

Lester glared at the ale as he waited for the pain in his mouth to subside. Eventually his tongue felt more normal but the giggles of the beverage continued to torment him and he was glad when Crypto returned the contents of the glass to the bottle and sealed the cap very tightly, muffling the malty mirth.

“I’ll drink rum instead,” he announced.

At this Crypto shook his head sadly. “That’s a bad idea indeed. If you peer under the table you will immediately see why I can’t recommend rum in this bar to anyone.”

Lester looked as he was bidden and beheld a long man with excessive sideburns and an orange shirt and trousers fast asleep in the dirt. His head rested on the taut skin of a small drum and his peace was profound, for his snores were blatant, unashamed and mighty. Turning his attention back to Crypto, Lester said:

“I did wonder what that noise was.”

“This man will surely snore for the remainder of eternity and it’s my worse luck if he does,” Crypto grumbled, “for he is the Drummer of My Life and it’s a little known fact that every person alive has a drummer like this, rather in the manner of a guardian angel with a better sense of rhythm, and if you are lucky enough to meet your destined drummer, he will play for you an infectious beat and your feet shall dance like they have never danced before.”

“I rarely dance,” sniffed Lester, “even at weddings.”

“But the Drummer of Your Life will play irresistibly and you will dance against your will at first, then with abandonment, and when your dance is finally finished you will regard it as the finest expression of joy possible. Not everyone is fortunate enough to encounter their chosen drummer. Indeed, most people never do. But I met mine one dark night and knew he would play for me until the morning, so I drank a glass of rum to fortify myself for the long dance ahead but he instantly fell asleep never to awaken again!”

Lester replied with vigour, “I can rouse him and you will have your dance of dances despite everything!” And he started kicking the drummer in the orange attire, each foot taking its turn to brutally connect with the man’s skull or ribcage.

Crypto did his best to restrain Lester by shaking his head at high speed and blurting, “Such treatment might serve to awaken a drummer who is enjoying natural slumber, but the Drummer of My Life is doomed to his perpetual supernatural nap because of the drink I consumed all that time ago. Remember the proverb!”

“Which proverb?” Lester demanded.

“Rum swallow does not wake a drummer!” recited Crypto.

“This is becoming intolerable!” Lester moaned.

“A fair summary,” agreed Crypto.

“I’ll order a glass of absinthe. It will hardly slake my thirst but my options are running low. First let me enquire if the drinking of such a liquid is free of odd incident?”

“Alas!” sighed Crypto. “It is not.” And he unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a pale chest with a small door embedded in it. “I also made the error of drinking absinthe here!”

He grasped a miniature handle on the door and turned it. The hatch swung open to expose a cavity. Inside this cavity were his beating heart and a tiny pot of melted cheese. Even as Lester frowned at these objects the heart slowly turned to display a mouth with a pair of puckered lips. Then this mouth blew on the hot cheese so that scrumptious steam writhed and the cavity became opaque.

“Explain this to me,” Lester demanded.

“Absinthe makes the heart blow fondue!” recited Crypto.

Lester held his face in despairing hands. “I’m not free to consume wine, ale, rum or absinthe at this bar! Is there any drink that has no warped proverb connected with it?”

“You could try the coffee,” answered Crypto.

Lester straightened. “Are you confident there are no proverbs that exploit a pun on the word ‘coffee’?”

“None that I know of,” said Crypto.

“Are you certain?” persisted Lester.

“Absolutely positive!” came the answer. “I swear on everything I hold dear, including my wife.”

Lester stood and approached the bar, covering the distance in five easy strides. He called for coffee and when the proprietress prepared it for him, he drank it all down in one gulp. Then he wiped his lips with a triumphant wink at Crypto.

“That was a bad thing to do,” said Crypto.

“What do you mean?” Lester cried.

“If you drink coffee in this bar you turn into an octopus. Nothing to do with proverbs, warped or otherwise, it’s just what happens. You have a minute before the change.”

Lester staggered back to the table. “An octopus! What good will I be with eight arms? How will I drive my camels now? Sure I’ll be able to steer and operate the clutch, accelerator, brake and many other controls simultaneously, but I’ll look terribly silly. Has anyone ever not mocked an octopus riding a camel?”

“I’ll undoubtedly laugh,” conceded Crypto. “You should have ordered orange juice. That’s the one safe drink in this place. If you had framed your question properly, orange juice would have been my recommendation, but it’s far too late now.”

“Orange juice!” snorted Lester. “I have a terrible story about that drink. I’ll tell it to you now. Are you sitting comfortably?”

“No,” answered Crypto.

“Why not?” asked Lester.

“My secret humps,” muttered Crypto.

“In that case, tell me one more thing while I’m still human,” said Lester. “Why do you remain at this bar? Why have you stayed for twelve years? Why don’t you leave?”

Crypto sighed. “I do miss being able to drink fluids without weird things happening. But I can’t depart. I’m joint owner of this place. The proprietress is my wife. Not long after I arrived I proposed to her and she accepted. So here I am and here I must stay!”

Lester nodded. “That reminds me. I should write a letter to my own wife, to break the bad news gently. If I just turn up as an octopus she might faint in terror. I have some paper but I don’t have a pen. Do you have one I can borrow?”

“I do but it has run out of ink.”

“I’ll have plenty of that in a moment,” said Lester.

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_{Fable with Turkish Coffee is a story in the collection Less Lonley Planet by Rhys Hughes and was published by Humdrumming in May 2008. Maliciously maligned in his home land, Rhys Hughes’ books have found success amongst the far more discerning and fruit-favouring folk of the Iberian Peninsula. Also, his ears are spoons. His book, A New Universal History of Infamy, has recently been published in Spanish.}