10
I blinked, trying to appear normal in front of the wavy-haired foreigner who talked as if he had been winded.
It was hard to pay attention to him when my mother had just proved that she was, indeed, a ghost.
I had seen her body in the morgue.
I had attended her funeral.
When I saw her in the subway, I thought it had all been a hallucination brought on by stress. However, that hallucination had just told me the name of the stranger who was now staring at me with a questioning look on his face.
“Well?” said the man. Max. From his tone, it wasn”t the first time he had repeated the question. “Are you interested?”
“I”m sorry, I was a bit distracted.”
Max raised his eyebrows as if he didn’t understand.
“Distracted?”
I couldn”t help but laugh a little at his bewilderment.
“Confused. Absent-minded,” I clarified. I tried to place his accent, which didn”t sound Slavic. “Are you from here, or are you on vacation?”
“Neither one nor the other,” he replied. “I”m Austrian, but I”ve been living here for a long time. What about you?”
“I’m looking for my ancestors. It’s a long story.”
He leaned against the large windows of my hotel, which, incidentally, was no longer my hotel.
“I have time if you want to tell me...”
“I”d actually love to, but I need to find accommodation first, or I”ll end up sleeping under a bridge.”
“Well, we have plenty of beautiful bridges in Ljubljana...”
“Very funny... you wouldn”t happen to know of a place I could stay, would you?”
“Of course I do. That”s what I was talking about before you got... distracted. I know a hostel where they might have some available rooms.” He gave me a smug smile, and I nodded gratefully until he added, “I suppose you won”t mind that it used to be a jail, will you?”
I shrugged.
“That’s fine. I”ve been living in a hovel for years and working nine to six for minimum wage. I”ll feel right at home.”
“I like your sense of humor,” said Max, looking pleased.
I let him think I was joking.
It took less than five minutes to get to the hostel Max had recommended, where I did find a free room. It wasn”t luxurious, but it was inexpensive and clean, with white sheets and simple Nordic-style furniture. I did my best to ignore the iron bars on the windows and doors, which were no doubt there for decorative purposes only.
“I”ll buy you dinner if you want,” Max offered after I was given the keys. “I can also show you around a bit if you want to meet a little earlier.”
The state of his shoes made it clear that Max wasn’t Pedro. He certainly wouldn’t take me to dinner at the Ritz, but I remembered my mother”s words and agreed: I would use the dinner to try to find out if he was connected to my inheritance.
He came by to pick me up at four in the afternoon, wearing a shirt that had never met an ironing board and a leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He had tied his hair back in a shaggy ponytail. Although it made him look like a hobo, it also showed off his chiseled face and brought out his round, gray eyes. I had to admit that it looked good on him.
“What have you got there?” I asked, watching him rummage through his mailman”s bag.
From its depths, he brought out a crumpled piece of paper and proudly showed it to me.
“Ta-dah! A map!”
“A map?” I looked at him, puzzled. “Where are you taking me? Are we having dinner or looking for the lost ark?”
He leaned against the nearest wall and began to write on his map with a thick-tipped marker.
“Look... we are here...” He wrote the word “hotel” in very neat handwriting. “And now we are going to go... here.” Holding the marker in his left hand, he drew a row of flowers along the riverbed. The strokes were fluid and curved.
“You have nice handwriting,” I commented, making him smile.
“I was always an all-round artist,” he replied and scribbled a signature in one corner. “Here, for you. A real, signed Finkenstein. People used to fight over my autographs... but now I don”t give them to anyone anymore. I”ll make an exception for you because I like you.”
I put the signed map in my bag, not understanding what he meant.
He guided me through a succession of narrow cobblestone streets lined with little shops displaying their colorful wares just outside their doors.
“I”m going to take you to the Dragon Bridge,” he said proudly. “All the tourists love it.”
“I’m not a tourist,” I growled.
“The locals like it, too,” he said and winked at me.
When we turned left, a stone-balustraded bridge appeared before us. At each of its four corners stood the statue of a menacing green metal dragon, claws raised and jaws open. I approached one and stroked its pointed tail, which was curled around the balustrade.
On the other side of the shore, a group of five or six foreign students were taking rowdy selfies next to one of the mythological beasts, corroborating Max”s comment about the tourists.
“Do you like it?” he asked, and without waiting for my answer, he continued. “The dragon is the symbol of the city. Follow me, and I”ll tell you the story.”
He pulled me by the arm, and we walked along the river, whose banks were lined with old houses in different states of preservation. White, pink, green, and gray, some looked newly renovated, while others looked like they’d collapsed. Behind them was a rounded hill crowned by a medieval castle.
“That”s where the dragon lived,” Max explained.
“Don”t tell me. Did he have a captive princess?” I asked ironically.
“Probably... they always have one, don’t they? But this story isn’t about princesses. It”s about how St. George slew the dragon, along with the ancient beliefs of the inhabitants of these lands.”
“And that”s a good thing?”
“It depends on who you ask... but sometimes it”s good to get rid of our limiting beliefs, don”t you think? It’s just a metaphor.”
He turned into an alley, which led to the market square. There, he stopped in front of a fast-food stand and bought something in greasy paper bags, which cost just a few coins. I noticed that they contained oily-looking puff pastries.
“Meat or cheese?” he asked cheerfully, picking up his change.
“Um, I don”t care. Whatever you recommend.”
He handed me one of the bags and strode off. I took it skeptically. When he talked about inviting me to dinner, I had hoped that we would at least eat sitting down. I sighed with resignation and sank my teeth into my dinner. To my surprise, it was delicious. The dough tasted incredibly comforting and was filled with soft, grainy cheese.
“Not bad for a pasty,” I admitted, dodging two crazed cyclists who were riding across the market square at full speed. The vendors were packing up their stalls after a long day outdoors.
“It’s not a pasty! It’s called Burek,” Max corrected me, looking offended. “Come, now I”ll take you to the best restaurant in Ljubljana.”
He turned a corner, and I followed him, intrigued. Hadn”t he just bought food? Where was he taking me now? We walked down a side street paved with cobblestones. The ground, covered with dried leaves and wilted flowers, suggested the presence of florists” stalls. By this time, all the vendors had left except for an old woman in a headscarf who was carrying a few unsold mismatched stems on her wooden cart.
“Maxi!” the old woman called, waving her arm.
“Do you know each other?” I asked curiously.
“Yes! That’s my friend, Danica.”
Max hugged her, and the woman gathered all her leftover flowers into a multicolored bouquet. She held it out to Max and jerked her chin at me.
“She says they”re for you,” Max said, handing me the bouquet.
I smiled, touched by the woman”s kind gesture, and thanked her as best I knew how. Roses, violets, tulips.
“Tulips are one of my favorite flowers.”
“Yes? I”m glad... Come on, let”s keep going!”
He dragged me back to the riverbank, and we walked past lively bars and cafes to a less crowded area, where the banks of the Ljubljanica River became tiered. We passed a street musician playing his saxophone, ignored by passersby. Max spotted him and rooted in his pockets, pulling out all the coins he had left after buying the pasties and dropping them into the man’s open saxophone case.
I was only halfway through the burek when, at last, Max stopped and sat down on some stone steps overlooking the river, facing toward the castle in the background.
“Here it is,” he declared, zipping up his jacket. “Burek, the river, and the castle at sunset. The best restaurant in the world.”
Holding my clashing bouquet, I couldn”t help but smile. It wasn”t the Ritz, of course, but it had its charm.
“So, we were on the same plane from Madrid,” I commented, brushing off the last crumbs of my burek into the sparkling river.
Some ducks came over to eat them, and I waited for Max to say something. But he just shrugged, suddenly taciturn.
“It”s a small world, I guess.”
“What were you doing there?” I persisted, “Were you there for work or on vacation?”
A shadow crossed his cheerful countenance.
“Nothing interesting,” he replied, shaking his head. “Why don’t you tell me what brought you here.”
I tried hard not to roll my eyes. “Another one with skeletons in the closet,” I said to myself. But his secrets were none of my business. I remembered why I was there with him and decided to cut to the chase.
“Well, my father may have had some possessions in Slovenia,” I explained. “He was born here, but my grandmother was Spanish. They went back to Spain together in the seventies, although he died young when I was about four years old. I never got to know any of his Slovenian family, so I’ve come here in the hope of finding a relative or someone who can guide me to the inheritance.”
“I understand,” he replied with a hint of coldness. “A business trip, then. I imagine you won”t have much time for sightseeing.”
“I”m also interested in getting to know the country, of course,” I added quickly, irritated by his assumption, even though he was, in fact, correct. “After all, I have roots here. I want to know more about the land of my ancestors.”
“I see. So what’s your plan? How do you intend to find these missing relatives?”
“Well... I don”t know yet. I was actually wondering if you could help me. My father”s name was Martin Br?ljan, like mine, and my grandmother was Carmen... Carmen Asensi. Do those names ring any bells?”
“No,” Max said without hesitation. “Not at all. In fact, it”s the first time I”ve ever heard the name Br?ljan in all the time I”ve lived here. I”d almost say it”s made up or foreign. But you’re lucky it”s so rare because there will be very few people with that name. I”m sure you”ll find them very easily.”
He rolled the paper bag into a ball and tapped it rhythmically against his knee, his face thoughtful. I wondered why my mother”s ghost had led me to this man if he knew absolutely nothing.
“You know,” he continued, pulling me out of my reverie. “I think we should start with the registry office. They might have a birth or death certificate.”
“Shall we? Are you coming with me?”
“Of course. Given your command of Slovenian, I doubt you”d get very far on your own. I can be your guide, your driver, and your translator. I don’t charge much.”
I felt like telling him that I could manage without his help, but I held my tongue. Firstly, because he was right, and secondly, because a ghost had led me to him.
“That would be very useful, but right now, I”m a little short of funds.”
“I’ll give you a special price. I would like to help you.”
“Max, I”m sorry, but I don’t think you understand,” I said, leaving the bouquet on the steps, “I can”t pay you anything until I come into that inheritance, if I ever do.”
He studied me, his face inscrutable, and held the flowers to his nose, inhaling sharply.
“All right,” he said with narrowed eyes. “Here”s the deal: I”ll take ten percent of whatever you find. And if in the end there”s nothing, you won”t have to pay me.”
“Five percent,” I replied, crossing my arms.
“Okay. Seven,” he said with a sly smile, reaching out to shake my hand.
“It”s a deal.” I sighed. “When do we start? What time do you get off work tomorrow?”
“Work?” he furrowed his eyebrows as if the word was totally foreign to him. “Ah, no worries. I”m usually free during the day. We can meet whenever you want, at ten o”clock in the morning, for example. I”ll pick you up.”
“And what do you do, apart from offering your services to random foreign women you meet?” I asked with irony.
“Ah, nothing interesting…”
At that moment, his phone rang, and he turned the screen away from me. As if I cared.
“Excuse me, Vesna,” he said, rising from the stone steps. “I have to take this call. I”ll be right back.”
I shrugged and checked my messages. There were no calls from Pedro, but I found an email from Indira, which included a PDF of over a hundred pages.
Subject: Your grandmother”s diary
From: Indira Rajesh
To: Vesna Br?ljan
File attachment: Carmen01.pdf
I downloaded the file while watching the lights of the castle come on in the distance. I skipped the first few pages, in which my grandmother had recounted her life during the days before the war. Max was still engrossed in an intense phone conversation, so I began reading while I waited for him. Hopefully, Grandma Carmen”s diary would give me some useful clues for the search.