Hazel
The table is starting to wobble in front of me as we begin the next course. This one is grape leaves stuffed with some sort of spiced rice. It’s very good, or at least it would be if I weren’t quickly getting hammered just to be polite.
Is this going to be what my whole month is like? I wonder, very carefully cutting a slice and lifting it to my mouth.
I make it. Success!
It’s not like I’m a teetotaler. Fuck no. I went through a bottle of whiskey in a week after the shit hit the fan and I dropped out of school, but I’m a total lightweight.
Sveloria might be the death of me, I think. I successfully get another forkful into my mouth, and I just hope that I don’t look like a barbarian eating. I don’t want my head to end up on a spike.
The way Kostya keeps glaring at me, it’s starting to feel like that might be my fate. I’m not even doing anything, just trying my hardest to fit in here, be polite and demure, and not fuck anything up.
Partway through the course, my father leans over to me and speaks in a low voice.
“Your mother wants me to tell you it’s perfectly polite to sip the vodka, particularly for women,” he says.
I look at my empty glass, then glance at the queen’s glass. Mostly full. Yelena’s glass is also mostly full, as are all the other women’s glasses at the table.
Fuck, I think. How was I supposed to know this was gendered?
I nod once.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Hang in there,” he says, then leans away again. His face is beginning to flush pink.
I take a deep breath and keep eating. I make as much polite conversation as I can with the middle-aged man on my other side, but he’s much more interested in the other people, and that’s fine. I’m just trying to keep my shit together over here.
They clear plates. They fill glasses, and this time I watch the clear liquid fill the little glass triumphantly.
Not today, motherfucker, I think at the vodka. Not today.
The king raises his glass.
“To the grass in the fields,” I think he says. I mutter nah, froyo, and take the tiniest possible sip of vodka, then put the glass down.
Across the table, Kostya is still staring at me. Glaring at me. Stare-glaring.
There’s probably a word for that in Russian, I think. Or they don’t have a word for “looking,” only “stare-glaring.”
I look away first, because I know I’m not handling myself well, and I know he disapproves of me. Plus, I can feel my Asian glow out in full force, so I’m bright pink.
But I’ve cracked the secret to not getting super drunk at this formal dinner, and it’s gonna be fine. From here on out I can only get less drunk.
The waiter puts a very small bowl of soup in front of me. The second the steam hits my nose, I know it’s got kidney in it.
I cannot stand the smell of kidney, even sober, and my stomach lurches.
I take a deep breath through my mouth and focus on a salt shaker.
You’re fine, I think. You’re not gonna throw up from four drinks. No one does that.
I catch another whiff of kidney and have to grit my teeth together, because it’s abundantly clear that I am about to do that.
“Excuse me,” I manage to say.
I stand and somehow, through sheer force of will, I walk out of the dining room in my high heels. I have no idea where I’m going, but I have to get out of that room, filled with vodka and kidney smells.
I walk into some sort of passageway. The windows overlooking the sea are open, and the fresh breeze feels good. I take a deep breath, and some of my nausea dissipates instantly. I take another, and another.
There’s a bench along the wall, facing the windows, and I sit on it gingerly. I lean my head back against the wall and keep gulping air. Maybe if I can stay like this for a few minutes, the soup will be gone, I won’t puke, and I can go back in there like nothing’s happened.
A few minutes pass, and I’m almost feeling better.
Then I hear footsteps coming down the hall.
My eyes pop open, but before I can stand, Kostya comes into view.
Great, I think. The very last person I want to see.
I swallow hard and lean forward to stand, but he holds up one hand.
“Sit,” he says, like he’s commanding a dog.
I glare, trying to give him a taste of his own medicine. He seems impervious to it.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You’re drunk,” he says.
I close my eyes and lean my head back.
“I’m sorry. Don’t put my head on a spike,” I say.
“You didn’t invade. You’re a guest,” he says, and I feel his weight settle next to me on the bench.
“I’m still a barbarian,” I say, eyes still closed.
I hear something rip, and open my eyes just enough to look down. He’s got a bread roll in his hand, and he’s torn a chunk off of it, holding it in front of me.
“You need bread,” he says. “It soaks up the vodka.”
“That’s not how digestion works,” I say.
His father must have sent him to do damage control with the drunk American girl, I think.
“Eat,” he says. I take the hunk of bread and put it in my mouth, chewing it slowly.
This is way, way worse than the train station. I look better now, but rushing out of a formal dinner because I’m so drunk I think I might vomit is beyond the pale. Hell, I should just pack my things and go home now, before this dinner is over, so I can’t ruin anything else.
My stomach stirs, and I lean my head against the wall, closing my eyes. Kostya presses another bite of bread into my hand and the tips of his fingers brush my palm. They’re warm and surprisingly rough for a royal.
I eat the bread. I swallow. I don’t open my eyes. He presses another bite into my palm, and we repeat this over and over again.
After a few minutes, I do start to feel better. I take a deep breath and open my eyes. He’s stare-glaring at me. I just blink.
“Better?” he asks. His expression stays flat.
“I think so,” I say. “You should go back. I’ll be okay.”
“It’s fine,” he says, and presses the last chunk of bread into my hand. “That vile soup will be gone when we return.”
I eat the last chunk of bread and try not to smile at vile soup.
“My mom gave me a brief on Sveloria, but I guess I skimmed the part about toasts,” I say.
“You’re not the first foreigner to be duped,” he says. “According to legend, that’s why we have so many of them.”
“To get foreigners drunk?” I ask. “Is Sveloria the frat party of Eastern Europe? You get outsiders drunk so you can get lucky?”
He frowns slightly and looks at me. I open my mouth, only to realize that I can’t possibly explain that dumb joke right now, so I just shake my head.
“We have an excellent tolerance for alcohol,” Kostya says. “In the old days, rulers would negotiate over a meal. In Sveloria, it was traditional for that meal to include a number of toasts, and anyone who refused to drink was committing a grave social sin.”
He still looks dead serious, but I start smiling.
“And your king would keep his head while the other guy got wasted,” I say.