Tolkien’s House -Skylar

Tolkien’s House was the retreat for many a lost or weary travelers shuttering through the cobble stone streets of Former Yugoslavia. Tucked in a nook of an alley and across from a small monastery, in the shadow of the Zagreb Cathedral is where one would stumble across this most unusual bar.  The corners were cramped with crannies and trinkets, and cigarette smoke dimmed the few lights. 

On this night in particular, there were many people in the bar. Low chatter buzzed the atmosphere, with the occasional loud laugh that boomed through the dusted rafters. It was a small space, and not one seat was left free. The latecomers sat outside.

Tonight the stragglers were a group of miscellaneous characters. The time was quarter to eleven, and though it was late, Tolkien’s House could still only provide a spot on the terrace. They came in twos.

The first pair had a swift walk. They came out of the Eastern European night into the haze of the lamps that framed the doorway. The taller of the two stepped inside briefly to converse with the bartender, while the second reached for a cigarette before pulling an extra chair to the one table half sunken in shadows.

Shortly after appeared another pair of two. They sat, pulling tighter at their jackets, seeming unpleased with the seating arrangements. As they bickered silently, the bartender appeared framed in the doorway carrying a tray. He was followed by the taller of the first pair.

The bartender set the table with six bottles of the house beer and flickered back into the house. Four now sat at the table outside, next to the monastery, drinking and smoking quietly. A short time passed and soon a sound of shoes against Zagreb streets clattered closer. The final pair of two had arrived, clearly drunk and in need of a drink.

“We thought we had lost you.” The others welcomed them.

Soon, all bottles of beer were drained, and after that the bartender could be seen running shots of brandy and whisky out to the company.

Tolkien’s House had begun to empty but the six remained and raised the volume of chatter and bickering and laughter. The hour was nearly midnight when three unexpected guests shifted out of the shadows. They were greeted by calls of recognition and toasts and drinks.

“You’re late!” “Come get a drink!” “What a surprise!”

The company grew to an array of mismatched conversations and joyful drunken stories inside a dome of laughing cigarette smoke that kissed their faces and danced up into the night. The slow red glow could be seen from down the alley. And the night was enjoyed.

“Only on this night, somewhere in Croatia, would we all end up here together. Cheers to us, friends.”

It happened when the clock struck midnight, that the Zagreb Cathedral loomed ever closer, and from the bell tower twenty-four clangs beat like drums. The first bell echoed in the ears of the company of nine. They fell silent. The second bell painted reality in their lost minds. The third bell struck their hearts like lightning. Briskly, the tallest one stood, nodding at the one sitting directly across the table and grabbing the shoulder of the one to the right. They swallowed what was left in their mouths and quickly farewelled the remaining company.

Clutching closely at their over jackets, the three wordlessly strode briskly into the Croatian shadows of the city. The bells of the cathedral rung on. Twenty-four times. Outside of Tolkien’s House, in the corner beside the monastery behind the old cathedral, the group of nine was now a company of six. The laughter died to chatter and eventually to silence as fumes from the cigarettes continued to be lost in the night.