at the head, and Nestor and John Smith flanked him. The big shot glasses awaited them. Igor brought his own shot glass and the bottle of vodaprika and a big platter of hors d’oeuvres… pickled cabbage with some kind of berries… salted cucumbers—big ones… slices of beef tongue with horseradish… salt herring… salted red salmon eggs (Low-Rent caviar)… pickled mushrooms, heaps of these briny beauties, intact or cut up and mixed with boiled potatoes, eggs, great slathers of butter and mayonnaise, great balls of them wrapped in pastry—guaranteed to keep a man warm up near the Arctic Circle and calorie-fried in Miami… all of it served in a heavy cloud of odeur de vomi.
“Everybody thinks the Russians, they drink only the plain vodka,” said Igor. “And you know what? They are right! That’s all they drink!”
Nestor could see John Smith trying to put a merry response on his baffled face.
“And you know why they drink like this?” said Igor. “I show you. Na zdrovia!” He grabbed a gob of salt herring with his fingers, stuffed it down the gullet, and knocked back another big shot-glassful… more blazing-red face, gasps for breath… and a veritable fog of odeur de vomi.
“You know why we do that? We don’t like the taste of the vodka. It tastes like the chemical! This way we don’t have to taste it. We only want zee alcohol. So why don’t we”—he pantomimed injecting his arm with a syringe—“take it like this?”
That struck him as highly amusing. He picked up a big briny pastry ball from the platter with his fingers and stuffed it into his mouth and began chewing and talking at the same time. He picked up the bottle and refilled his glass and hoisted it once more as if to say, This one, this the vodaprika! He beamed at John Smith, and then he beamed at Nestor and then at John Smith again, and—bango!—knocked back another shot. “And now you drink!”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an order. It was a declaration. He poured each of them a glassful… and himself, too. “And now we go… when I say ‘Na zdrovia.’ Okay?”
He looked at John Smith and then at Nestor… and what could you do but nod yes?
“Na zdrovia!” he exclaimed, and all three of them tilted their heads back and tossed the drink down their gullets. Even before it hit bottom, Nestor realized that this goddamned shot glass was a lot bigger than he thought it was and had no apricot taste or any other taste to lessen the shock of what was impending. The damned thing hit bottom like a fireball, and he came up gagging and coughing. His eyes were flooding with tears. John Smith’s, too, and if his own face was now as red as John Smith’s, then it was a fiery red.
Igor came up smiling and picking up a gob of salted herring from the platter with his fingers and shoving it into his mouth. He found Nestor’s and John Smith’s performance hilarious. Hah hah hah-hah-hah haha. Obviously he would have been disappointed if they had done any better.
“Don’t worry!” he said merrily. “You must have practice! I give you two more times.”
Jesus Christ! thought Nestor. This was the worst white-boy-wasted behavior he had ever seen! It was gross! And he was taking part in it! Cubans were not big drinkers. In what was meant to be a lighthearted way, he said, “Oh, no, thanks. I think I’ve got—”
“No, Nade, we must have three!” said Igor. “You know? Otherwise—well, we must have three! You know?”
Nestor looked at John Smith. John Smith looked at Nestor sternly, and slowly moved his head up and down in the yes mode. John Smith? He was so tall and skinny. He had no normal physical courage. But he would lie, cheat… and probably steal, although he hadn’t seen him do it yet… and now, it turned out, cauterize his gastrointestinal tract… to get a story.
Nestor looked at Igor and with a feeling of doom muttered, “Okay.”
“That’s good!” said Igor. He was very cheery about it as he refilled all three glasses.
The next thing Nestor knew—“Na zdrovia!”—he threw his head back and tossed the vodaprika down his open maw—¡mierda!—and the gagging, the doubling over, the coughing, the gasping, the flood of tears were barely under control when—
Na zdrovia! Another fireball—Ahhhhhhhughh… eeeeeeeeuuughhh… ushnayyyyyyyyyyyanuck splashed down his windpipe—burned his throat—gushed up into his nasal passages and came leaking down onto his pants—and Igor congratulated him and John Smith.