The Broken Boots Guide to Astlavonia

The Broken Boots Guide to Astlavonia

Novel by Nathan Braund

First Chapter

PACKAGE 1 OF 16

‘Only lend your shoe if you have one foot.’

(Astlavonian proverb)

ORGANIZED TOURS

Somewhere amongst dawn, I woke up when the car hit a pothole. There was a plastic half-woman, half-bird thing bobbing from side to side on the yellow fur dashboard. ‘The Model’ by Kraftwerk was playing and the meter said ‘2874’. Christ, how much was that in pounds?

An ID card with a photo of a big nosed man with a grey beard was dangling from the windscreen mirror. Another pothole tricked the tyres as the gears were crunched into fourth. I turned to look at the driver. He wasn’t bearded or big nosed. He was young with highlighted hair and a Midge Ure style moustache. A paisley scarf, with a Mayor-full of necklaces, hung over his red shirt that was wedged into silver trousers that tapered into suede pixy boots.

The effeminate clothes didn’t disguise his arms which were like stuffed hooverbags. Stale sweat and cheap aftershave belljared the car. He smiled at me and I nervously smiled back, noticing he was wearing a black dagger on a belt topped with Playboy rabbit’s ears.

Terror half-nelsoned me: I was stuck in a foreign country in a car with an armed stranger who, out of economic desperation, probably killed the big-nosed driver and stole his taxi. After a coach journey through Russia full of unexplained delays, bad seating and vodka smeared men, I was shattered. I knew I’d arrived in Astlavonia but couldn’t really remember jumping into this car at the border. There weren’t any direct flights into the country because local politics had slowed down the construction of an airport.

‘She’s a module and she lucking god,’ sang the driver.

Was he playing with me? Was he about to turn-off into an insignificant lane and end my insignificant life? His neck looked as if it were cricked out of line.

‘Urr hi, yeah, um where are we going?’ I said.

Rattling with exhilarations, the boxcar nosed forward. Clouds had split across an orange-red sky.

‘We on some road to the nowhere with a burning round a house. Wooh.’

Had I told him where I wanted to go before falling asleep? That meter bill would kill me if he didn’t. What would he do if I couldn’t change any cash? I should have stayed in Exeter with my boring life, my wonderfully reassuring, tedious life.

‘I need to get to town Broiklarrio. It not far. It near Russian border,’ I said in a loud speak-to-foreigner voice.

‘You a spy?’ he said, groping his left bicep.

‘No. I’ve come to see Professor Augustus Dachna…urr…Dachnakovi…’

‘Dachnaklovistiati. You got blue eyes. Sure you no KGB guy?’

‘I’m not a spy. I promise.’

‘Groovy. My name’s Llarotilorius Glatoblikov,’ he said.

‘Hi, I’m Mark, Mark King.’

‘Hey, Marc Almond guy, yeah. Say hello now and waving goodbye with some love tainting. I think you like man with no naming before but Marc Almond guy is cool.’

I could taste sour pine from the car freshener.

‘So is the town far from here?’

‘Yeah. No problem.’

The driver (I’d forgotten his name already so will call him ‘the driver’) turned-up the metallic keyboard solo and thumped his foot on the pedal. Tearing around a corner, we narrowly avoided an old shepherd. The driver giggled, tapping the rhythm of the song onto the small, rally sized steering wheel.

Rusting, peeling, the Lada was falling apart. I’d thought there was a shard of mirror by my right foot but it was a hole revealing shifting ground. Sheets of metal had been hammered onto the bonnet. I could see the ‘c’ and ‘o’ of a Coca Cola sign that clung to the right flank. I hadn’t even realized I was on the right side of the car.

‘Hey, I Burt Reynolds and the Hazard Dukes. Maybe I going onto the two wheels.’

‘No. Please slow down.’

‘We no controlling our destiny, Marc Almond guy. It don’t matter when I crash ’cause then it meant to be.’

‘Can you slow down just a little bit? Maybe you’re destined to drive slower.’

‘Tah. All this worry when you having so ace car chase Canonball to Speedkill fun.’

The taxi wept and shook with the increase in speed. What if the floor of the car collapsed and we fell through?

‘Please,’ I begged.

‘We no boss of the fate, yeah? It written out for us. I do what I have to do, do, do, dah? I got to do the action cause it the way that we do it. Too many persons is always thinking but action is the man. Yeeehaaaaaaah!!!!!!’ he yelled, thrusting the car into pain and clapping my thigh.

We sped off towards Broiklarrio. He might feel relaxed about his future but mine was as clear as the purple clouds. I swallowed on a dry throat and yearned for the safety of a hotel room.

DYNAMIC DIGS

The purple clouds had dispersed by the time we reached Broiklarrio, allowing the morning sun to illuminate the narrow buildings. The border town was a fair distance from the drop-off point of the coach so I’d endured a thirty-minute lecture on predestination, free enterprise and Spandau Ballet. In addition, the driver had whistled the ‘Careless Whisper’ saxophone solo (the twelve inch version). I’d tried to sleep but failed miserably. Even worse, the bumpy ride had loosened up my bowels so I was in desperate need of a toilet.

With no gear change or apology, the taxi skidded to a halt, outside a green, narrow building where a geriatric man was stood waiting.

‘We the here, Marc Almond guy,’ said the driver.

‘5786,’ glared the taxi-meter.

‘Hey, Marc Almond guy, your taxi-meter so big the charging, yeah? Don’t worry being happy. You can pay me later with some good favours.’ said the driver, flashing a disturbing grin.

I didn’t want to think about the nature of those ‘good favours’. After a lot of rattling and yanking, I released the door and stepped out, smelling incense and sewerage. I just managed to get my crappy tartan suitcase from the boot before the taxi drove off. I approached the old man.

‘Urr hello, is it Professor Augustus? My name is Mark King. I sent you an email.’

I quickly shook his right hand which was smooth and cold. It fell off. I was left holding a false hand that was pink.

‘The first lesson in Astlavonia is to be mindful when shaking upon an agreement. It is likely that an Astlavonian will steal your hand, good sir. Do not be alarmed. I lost my original in a farming accident.’

I apologetically gave the fake one back to him. Screwing it onto his wrist, he looked at me and said, ‘So you are the Mark.’

At the same time, I thought, ‘So you are Augustus’: a long, grey, streak of hair was firmly pressed on top of closely trimmed black hair. Thick brows hung over hazel eyes and a creased but soft face ended in a jutting chin.

Looking like he’d been dragged through a jumble sale backwards, he wore a large, beige raincoat rolled–up at the sleeves, a khaki, army shirt, tomato red tracksuit trousers and wrinkled trainers. An old fashioned hearing aid was attached to a metal box on a belt that also held a dagger and sheaf. The dagger looked opulent against such rags. There was some sort of carving on the handle and a precious stone at its head.

Was it unethical to meet Augustus? Yeah, probably, but I was up the creek. I planned to pay him to do most of the research for a guidebook I had to write but hoped that a king’s ransom to him would be a pauper’s luncheon voucher to me (outsourcing?). I knew that sounded horrible but I had no choice about the book or the money. I was in serious, serious debt.

After a day of cataract-inducing searches in an internet café, I’d found Augustus’ name under ‘thepilgrimagetour@Astla.com’. Entering ‘Astlavonia’ into the system had been useless so finding Augustus had been pure luck.

‘Hmm. I have never spied such a Britisher before. Do most of you possess blue eyes and red hair?’

He re-lit his cigarette. The filter was made of cardboard and the cigarette paper was so thin that the dark tobacco made it look wet.

‘Nah. Most of us have brown eyes and brown hair.’

‘But your hair is so orange.’

I didn’t take offence because I was new and strange to him. Besides, English people (particularly kids) felt the need to tell me I was ginger in case I had a bout of amnesia. My mouth was coated in travel.

‘So is the hotel far from here?’ I asked.

‘There is no boarding establishment in this town.’

‘But where am I going to stay?’

‘Worry not. You can accommodate in my apartment and we will gladly nourish you. In exchange for this, you will teach English in my school for twenty-five hours a week.’

‘But that wasn’t the deal. We agreed I’d pay you for information about Astlavonia.’

Augustus wiped his mouth, ‘I am simply trying to assist you with a complication: there are no Inns in Broiklario. Do you have any qualifications?’

‘Urr three O Levels in English, Maths and Art,’ I said, blushing.

There was no need to blush but I’d dreamt of progressing further. It hadn’t panned out but then nothing really had.

In fact, I was almost expelled from school at the age of fifteen. My best friend was moving away from me, showing interest in someone sportier, tougher, taller so I moved fast and stole the skeleton from the Biology lab. After showing my friend, I returned it but got caught by the caretaker.

Somehow, I’d managed to lose one of the feet. The headmaster, who was originally a Biology teacher, was not impressed, stating that I could be charged with kidnap rather than theft ‘in a court of law’. Luckily, after much begging from the school psychiatrist who said that the missing foot symbolized adulescent emasculation, I was suspended for a week rather than expelled.

When I returned to school, my friend had moved on and I only passed three O Levels. My dad didn’t speak to me for four months. He finally broke the silence to give me an application form for Tesco.

Augustus looked at me and said, ‘Three O Levels? Three degrees, yes? Three degrees in English, Maths and Art. That is exceptional! I have two degrees in History and Philosophy but three degrees is enlightened, cognizant, cerebral.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, looking at the ground.

I was angry with myself because I’d vowed to stop lying but was too embarrassed to point out the difference between a GCE and a degree.

‘You will make a splendid teacher, an erudite professor. English is of revived interest now that we have freedom and it is better to have a native speaker as an instructor, yes? Why, it will become the selling point of my industry. Please follow me into my school and humble abode.’

Augustus turned. A fat backside didn’t make sense on such a skinny body. We crossed the doorway where there was a wooden sign, with peeling paint, hanging from two shoelaces. Augustus translated it.

‘“Oxbridge-Wells School of Language with a specialization in English: Approved by A.J.D”. Now we can add “Qualified Native English Speaker” to this signage, yes?’

Did he mean that I was qualified because I’d been born in Britain? I could barely speak English let alone teach the thing. My gut churned. I badly needed the lav.

‘Behold, my empire,’ said Augustus as we stepped into a hallway that smelt of institutional bleach and entrenched cigarette smoke.

His empire was obviously more than the hallway but there were no gestures of giving a tour. Oh god, where was his bog?

‘Now, fellow scholar, most of your lessons will be in the morning, leaving you plenty of time for your book research in the afternoon and evening. Naturally, a convenient break will be alloted for a cup of sugary Earl Grey tea with a spot of milk and a plate of cucumber sandwiches.’

‘I’m sorry but we didn’t agree on how much you want to charge for helping me with the book.’

There was a high-pitched whistle from Augustus’ hearing aid.

‘What?’

‘How much do you want to…’

The hearing aid shrieked. If it carried on like this, packs of rabid dogs would stampede the school. All of a sudden, my stomach threshed in a way that demanded immediate attention.

‘Can I use your toilet?’

A telephone rang.

‘Lavatory?’ said Augustus between the squeal of his hearing-aid and the caclang of the phone.

‘Yes please.’

‘Upstairs. Upstairs.’

He pointed upwards as if I’d asked him where the second storey of the house was located and then hurried off to the phone. Leaving my luggage in the hallway, I bolted up the stairs. I hadn’t eaten any foreign food but my insides were ready to explode. It must be tiredness. I yanked open doors until I found the loo.

BUILDING FEATURES

Augustus’ pink toilet was a confused mix of western sit-down and Asian crouch and shout. Neither fish nor fowl, it had a lidless bowl rather than a glorified hole in the floor but foot grips attached to the seat. Confronted with such a design at such a moment, I’d decided to sit on the sharp-toothed foot grips. Where the hell was the toilet paper?

The confined room contained a midget-bath, an oily shower curtain, a bottle of green fluid and an ashtray full of cardboard butts. A curtain with a repeated farmyard scene failed to block the sunlight. My shoes kept sticking to the linoleum floor while sweat dripped down my back.

Waiting on the decisions of my bowels, I’d passed the time by sorting through my money belt that was raised over my stomach. I’d read my packing list and was now flicking through my new passport (why had I chosen orange curtains in the photo?). It fluttered with blank pages except for one with a Russian visa and one that held an official red stamp with a decorative symbol of a dagger and the words ‘Kingdom Aastii’. How many people had seen such a stamp? Back home in a pub, I’d be able to flash the motif around as proof I’d lived and worked in Astlavonia.

If only my passport had been one of those old blue hardback editions that evoke images of Victorian voyages with croquet and forbidden love on deck. Who was I kidding? As a descendant of farmers, I’d have been herded into third class while a scurvied man picked my pockets (or worse). Why did most of us prefer the blue classic passports to the new kidney coloured, EU things? Did the old passport give us a false but needed sense of Britannia ruling the waves? Did it make us feel safer in uncharted territories where the white cliffs of Dover were nowhere to be seen?

What was I prattling on about? It was tiredness and nerves. I returned the passport, zipped up the money belt and released a low sigh. I didn’t know how to stride into a classroom and teach and, more importantly, wanted to dedicate my time and energy into the guidebook. The research alone would be a mammoth undertaking. There was nothing to cut-and-paste. Oh, I couldn’t write and I couldn’t teach. Believe me, I dreamt of fame and fortune but only if I succeeded. I didn’t want to be immortalized as a useless tosser.

A dog barked from somewhere in the flat. The water pipes seemed to play the opening notes of ‘London Bridge’. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

‘Hang on a sec’. I’ll be out in just a…’

‘As I suspected. Indeed, as I suspected,’ said Augustus like Sherlock Holmes as he walked into the bathroom, carrying a tiny bucket and a metal ladel. He was still wearing his beige coat. I pulled my T-shirt as far over my lap as possible.

‘I’m right in the middle of…if you could just wait outside and…’

‘This particular lavatory is broken. The plumbing is kaput. You must carry your offerings to the other toilet down the hallway on the left.’

‘Oh no.’

‘Worry not. I have a bucket for this purpose.’

‘Oh god. Alright, okay. Have you got any toilet paper? You seem to be out of it.’

‘So it is true! I have heard of such a thing but could not believe that paper was used instead of washing away. They even state that Western people empty the contents of their nose into a cloth and carry it around in their pockets for days. I assumed these were disgusting rumours. I will await outside, Marklavotius.’

He looked back at me as if hoping I wasn’t quite so revolting in my habits. I stretched my T-shirt further over my knees. After he’d left, I stared at the bucket. I’d have to wash myself and then begin. Because the bucket was so small, I’d have to make three journeys at least.

‘The Broken Boots Guide to Astlavonia’ by Nathan Braund is available as a paperback and ebook on Amazon, Waterstones, WHSmiths etc.

For more information, please visit: www.nathanbraund.com.