6
Through the plane window, Ljubljana airport was little more than a gray dot in a sea of beech and fir trees. As we crossed the last handful of clouds, I was glad to leave behind my life and my work in Madrid for a few days: I also needed a change of scenery to detoxify from my unhealthy obsession with Pedro.
The first thing that struck me when I emerged from the plane was how small the airfield was. If everything in the country was like this, Slovenia promised to be charming, a place made of marzipan villages and houses the size of thimbles...
My dazzle vanished as quickly as the wake of the propeller plane that had taken me there: after a long wait, my suitcase did not deign to appear on the conveyor belt. Disappointed, I dragged my slightly oversized carry-on to the claims window.
“Excuse me...” I said in Spanish to an elegant lady in a blue uniform. She was reading the newspaper with parsimony as if it were part of her job. “My suitcase is lost...”
She looked up from the newspaper, annoyed by the interruption, and looked at me blankly. She said something in English but I only understood please. I tried to conjure up some words of the local language: my father had passed away too soon to teach it to me. The lady, looking increasingly jaded, continued to stare at me. Unable to make myself understood, I began to gesticulate, attracting the attention of several passersby.
“Can I help you?” asked a male voice behind me. He had a strange accent, although his Spanish was perfect.
Turning around, I encountered a tall, fair-haired, slightly disheveled individual who probably cut his own hair less than was necessary… and with pruning shears. He was dragging a decrepit suitcase and a musical instrument case.
“I”m trying to explain that my luggage is lost,” I said, ignoring his attempt to shake my hand in greeting. I wasn”t interested in making friends with strangers who patched up their suitcase with duct tape, no matter how attractive they were.
“So what”s that big bag, then?” he asked in surprise.
“This is my carry-on luggage.”
“Oh, of course,” he exclaimed with a smile. Then he exchanged a couple of words with the lady in uniform and turned to me. “Let me have your ID and boarding pass.”
I obeyed and let him take care of the problem: after all, he was the only one who understood these people.
“You have to fill out this form.” He smiled, and as he did so, his gray eyes creased with fine wrinkles, revealing that he wasn’t as young as he looked. “Or if you want, I can do it for you. Name?”
“Vesna.”
“Last name?”
“Br?ljan Exposito.”
“Nationality?” He looked at me sideways. As if it wasn”t obvious.
“Spanish.”
“Interesting surname for a Spaniard. If it weren”t totally impossible, I”d venture to say you”re Slavic.”
“Do you need that for the form as well?”
He shook his head and scribbled a couple more lines. Meanwhile, I looked curiously at his T-shirt, which showed a caricature of three musicians in wigs along with the slogan “I listen to dead people.” Who would they be―Mozart, Bach, Beethoven? I had never been very interested in classical music; it all sounded the same to me.
The friendly, disheveled foreigner finished with the forms and exchanged a couple of words with the stewardess in perfect Slovenian. Judging by his expression, he was satisfied with the answer.
“They”ll probably have your luggage tomorrow... if they haven”t sent it to La Paz or St. Petersburg. They’ll telephone you when it arrives.” He handed me back my documents. “I see you”ve come from Madrid, too.”
I nodded reluctantly. All I could think about was getting out of there and getting settled in the hotel.
“It”s strange that I didn”t see you on that small plane,” he insisted. “Are you here on holiday?”
Again, I ignored his question. He was looking at my cleavage with extreme interest, and I fastened a button on my blouse, frowning.
“Sorry, I”m in a hurry...”
It occurred to me that I didn”t even know his name. It also occurred to me that I didn”t want to know. I looked sideways at his jacket, a good make but with a patch on the elbow.
“Do you need help getting to your hotel?” he asked.
“Don”t worry, I can manage on my own, but thank you for your help.”
He shrugged and said goodbye with a mock bow. I turned around, leaving him by the counter, and walked out of the terminal with my bag in tow.
I stepped out into the Slovenian sunshine for the first time. In front of me stretched an asphalt esplanade, and beyond it, overlapping rows of conifers, their angular crowns contrasting against the silhouette of the Julian Alps. Alone for the first time in another country, I looked up at the sky and asked for a sign to show me the next step to take.
My phone rang instantly, almost like an answer.
“Vesna, it”s me,” Indira”s voice greeted me from Valencia. “Did you get there safely?”
On the advice of her cousin, the notary, I had authorized Indira to make all the necessary arrangements in my absence. I had signed all the papers that were put in front of me without even reading them, and I offered to pay them for their help, but they both refused.
“I’m fine! I still have to get to the hotel, but I don”t think it will be too difficult.”
“I”m glad. I was calling you about your mother”s things. I’ll donate everything, as you said, but I found something you might want to keep.”
“Really? Anything of value?”
For an instant, I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe she had left me jewelry or a briefcase full of money under the mattress.
“Well, I’m not sure if you’d say it was valuable... it depends on how you look at it. It’s a diary.”
I exhaled, a little disappointed.
“Ah, just a diary... my mother”s, you say?”
“No, it”s not your mother”s. It”s your grandmother, Carmen”s. Wait, I”ll read you a couple of pages. It’s quite interesting.”