20
When Max appeared at the front desk, I had to stifle a chuckle. He was wearing suede shorts and high socks with tassels. He had completed his bizarre outfitwith a black velvet vest with white polka dots and a white linen blouse with floral embroidery. Underneath the unbuttoned vest, a pair of suspenders was visible, joined together over the chest in the Tyrolean style.
“Don”t even think of laughing,” he warned me with a surly face.
“Me? I would never do such a thing.“ I noticed that he had slicked back his hair with gel, and the overly polished style made him look very different. “Although I can”t help wondering what you”re disguised as…”
“It”s not a disguise!” he snapped. “It”s a regional costume. For a person of Slavic descent, you know very little about your roots.”
“And you just figured that out now?”
I grabbed my backpack, in which I had packed pajamas and a change of clothes, and followed Max to the car. He started the engine, and I looked curiously at the embroidered label on his sleeve: “M. Finkenstein. Ansambel Kuku.”
“Ku-ku...” I read slowly, barely holding back my laughter. “Where are you taking me?”
“You said you didn”t want to stay alone at the hostel, didn”t you? Well, I”m taking you to work, where else?” he replied curtly. “I couldn”t think of a better place.”
“If I had known it was going to bother you so much, I would have gone to a café or something…”
“It doesn”t bother me. I”m just nervous. I don”t get along with my coworkers.”
The trip passed in silence. We parked next to a low, elongated building with a red gabled roof and pretty little attic windows. Above the entrance was a large sign with the words “Restaurant and Hotel”.
“Is this where you work?” I asked with curiosity.
“Sometimes.”
“Are you a waiter?”
“No.”
“So… what do you do then?” I insisted. I wasn”t going to let his monosyllabic answers put me off.
“I”m a violinist,” he grunted.
“Do violinists usually dress like this in Slovenia?”
“No. Only disgraced violinists like me, who play Oberkrainer music for the BBC.”
“For the BBC?” I exclaimed with admiration, looking at his regional costume with new eyes.
“Yes, BBC: Burials, Birthdays and Christenings,” he replied with such a bitter grimace that I refrained from asking what Oberkrainer meant. Surely, I would find out soon enough.
I followed him into a large room full of dark, antique wooden furniture and long tables covered with white tablecloths. A pleasant smell of roasting meat permeated the air, and I remembered that I hadn”t eaten anything since breakfast. Judging by the profusion of balloons with the number fifty on them, they were preparing a lavish birthday party.
Max directed me to a table set apart from the rest, the only one devoid of decoration, where two stunning women were drinking beer from mugs, wearing dresses with puffed sleeves and lace bodices. They sported low, square necklines so tight that they left little to the imagination.
“You can sit with Alma and Adelina, our singers,” Max told me. “I have to go test the sound equipment before the guests arrive. The party will finish late, but if you get bored, you can go out on the terrace for some fresh air or go to the bar for a drink. If anyone asks, tell them you”re with the Kuku group.”
I did as I was instructed and took a seat at the musicians” table across from the two singers. They looked at me as if I had vomit in my hair, and I made an effort to smile, feeling extremely uncomfortable.
“Hello... dober dan... my name is Vesna. How are you?”
They greeted me with a nod and continued talking to each other as if I wasn”t there. I was about to get up and find another seat when, to my relief, Max called both girls to the podium. Alma and Adelina left without looking at me.
The guests started to arrive, and the Kuku group began their show. There were three men and two women on stage, all in regional costumes. While the waiters handed out jugs of wine, the musicians played rhythmic polkas, cheerful and repetitive, in which the sound of the accordion and the voices of the singers prevailed. Max stood at the back, looking depressed; it was clear that he felt uncomfortable with them. I, however, loved the performance, which was perfectly in keeping with the tone of the party and its guests, who were mostly families and elderly people, enjoying the popular songs and singing along enthusiastically.
When dinner arrived, the musicians took a break and returned to the table, from where I had been listening to them, enraptured.
“What was that you were playing?” I asked Max with sincere interest. “I loved it.”
“Mostly folk music. Slavko Avsenik”s melodies and ancient peasant songs. That”s what people ask for here, and that”s the only thing that makes us money. That”s how we, cheap concert performers, end up because nobody is interested in chamber music recitals,” he grudgingly answered while he stirred the large bowls of soup that had been left for us in the center of the table: one with mushrooms and one with veal broth, both delicious.
“Some people had tears in their eyes at the last song, you know? I got goosebumps when they all sang along. What do the lyrics mean?”
“Ah, that one was called “Kje si, o?ka moj?”. It means “Where are you, father?” It’s about a boy whose father left home... depressing.”
“Oh,” I muttered, feeling a sudden knot in my stomach. “How sad.”
I ate my soup in silence while the musicians became embroiled in an argument that I couldn”t understand.
After the soup, they brought us large trays filled with roast meat, grilled vegetables, and potatoes. All the food was simple but tasty, and everyone served themselves all they could eat.
By the time dessert arrived, the conversation among the Kuku group had turned into a heated argument. They returned to the stage, casting icy glances at each other, and it seemed to me that Alma and Adelina were looking at me sideways as if I were somehow involved in the altercation. Luckily, they managed to conceal their disagreement while singing Happy Birthday to the host, and the guests toasted with champagne, oblivious to the bad mood that reigned among the artists.
“What a bunch of sourpusses,” blurted out a voice behind me.
In the corner, on a table covered with flowers and gifts, my mother was shaking a high-heeled shoe as if she had a stone in it. She was wearing a miniskirt almost as short as Alma and Adelina”s dresses and looked just a few years older than me.
“Mom! What are you doing here,” I whispered, “Someone might see you!”
My mother snorted, amused.
“Hah! They wish...” she said, swinging her heel sensuously. “By the way, did you manage to find out anything? How was your visit to the dowser?”
“You say it as if you hadn’t been there.
She smiled again, this time openly.
“Ok, you got me. Yes, I was curious to see it, but I was discreet, wasn”t I? What a grouchy old man. It wouldn’t have cost him anything to tell you that your grandparents lived by Lake Bled for years.”
“You knew?“ If I could have strangled her at that moment, I would have. “And would it have been so difficult for you to tell me on the first day?”
“I’m only allowed to tell my side of the story.”
I exhaled, making an effort not to lose my temper so early. “But you just told me now. So you”re breaking the rules.”
“It”s all right. I know you”re about to go out on that terrace and read Carmen’s diary by the river, and you”ll find out for yourself. No one in their right mind would stand a whole night in the company of these resentful musicians. Each one is worse than the other. No wonder your friend Max avoided talking to you about his work. It truly sucks.”
She was right: if I were forced to put up with Alma and Adelina one more minute, I would feel the urge to throw myself into a swamp, just like my mother had.
I got up from my chair, slung a jacket over my shoulders, and made my way to the restaurant terrace, where a row of weeping willows bathed their reedy branches in the river to the beat of the distant polkas. I was grateful for the coolness of the night and the smell of damp vegetation. By the time I found the last page I’d read, my mother was no longer there, although the trail of her perfume lingered in the air for a few moments longer.
Then, my surroundings faded away, and Carmen Asensi”s words brought me back to 1937.