22
I tried to turn to the next page, but there wasn’t anything else.
“Damn!” I muttered.
Why hadn”t Indira scanned the rest of the diary for me? I understood my grandmother Carmen so well now that I needed tofind out Miroslava”s prediction almost as much as she had that day.
“Everything all right?” asked Max”s voice behind me.
I turned around. He had taken off his polka-dot vest and was shuffling along, violin case in tow. I was so engrossed in my reading that I hadn”t noticed that the party music had stopped.
“We can leave,” he said, “Pavel and Armin will pick up the rest of the equipment. Today, it”s their turn.”
“I”m not sleepy. Would you like to go for a drink?” I proposed with a grimace of innocence. I didn”t want to go back to my barred room yet and even less to the specters of the prisoners who populated it.
“Yes, I’d love to! And I know just the place.”
We returned to Ljubljana in his car. It was a quiet weekday night in early May, and most of the bars along the river―The Beach area, as they called it over there―were already closed. We walked along the Ljubljanica River, enjoying the view of the half-deserted, subtly lit city. The dim yellowish streetlights created golden reflections in the water. Every now and then, we would come across a couple embracing or a group of foreign students with a higher percentage of ethanol than water in their blood.
“Why didn”t you want to tell me that you were a musician?” I asked him, breaking the charm of the evening a bit. “I thought it was a fantastic performance. It was so joyful, and the guests had lots of fun.”
Max”s gaze hardened, and it took him a few moments to answer.
“I don”t like to be identified with that kind of music, that”s all. I don”t want people to point at me on the street and say, Look, there”s Maximilian from the Kuku band.”
“Why not? You”re good at it.”
He stopped and leaned against the sturdy stone railing, gazing at the river”s current.
“Good?” he sneered, rummaging through a pile of stones that someone had arranged neatly on the railing. “Vesna, ten years ago, I became first violinist in the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. But I made a terrible mistake, which is why I’m here now, playing ‘I have an aunt in Hra?e’ every night infront of an audience of drunken villagers.”
He tossed a couple of pebbles into the water, and they splashed as they submerged. I reached out to grab another from the pile, and our fingers met for an instant. I quickly pulled away, but not before grabbing another pebble. I turned it in my fingers slowly as I chose my words.
“What made you leave the orchestra?”
“The question is not what, but who.”
“I guessed as much, but I didn”t want to sound nosy.”
“Her name was Lana. I sacrificed everything and came back here for her. You can imagine the rest of the story.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. In your twenties, you think love can last forever. But the only thing that remains is the music—the music and the need to merge with the notes, to be as one with the rest of the orchestra until your whole being vibrates. You forget about your body and become part of the melody...”
I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck as I listened to his words. Yes, I knew what he was talking about. It was the same feeling I’d felt braiding daisies in Indira”s hair or making wildflower tiaras after school. I knew well the magic of being the only one who knew the exact name of every flower, every bush, and the perfect conditions for it to thrive.
“I should have made better choices.” He shrugged.
Me too, I said to myself.
“Why don”t you try again?” I asked him, nudging him out of his reverie.
“Unfortunately, that train has already passed. I became enemies with certain people because of this whole thing... and they were very influential people. They made sure I would never be accepted again in any orchestra. Why do you think I went to Madrid? I tried to apply, but again, nothing. Another rejection. In the end, you get used to them.”
I tugged at his white embroidered shirt, pulling him away from the riverbank railing.
“Come on, take me to this place you were talking about. I think you need a drink much more than I do.”
Max nodded, taking me by the hand and leading me through the winding streets. He stopped at a gray building with a narrow blue door. A tiny wooden sign on the corner identified it as a bar, though it was so small that anyone who didn”t know of its existence would have passed it by. Underneath it was the word Zaprto, and, poor as my Slovenian was, I did know that it was the word for closed. Max was undeterred and pushed the door, which, despite the sign, gave way easily.
“What kind of den is this?” I asked with a chuckle as we walked in.
The waiter greeted Max by name. The place was tiny, with only four long tables and a small bar. Despite the late hour―and the sign stating it was closed―all the tables were full. We found two free chairs at one of them and sat down next to four men who spoke with a different cadence than the one I had heard in Ljubljana.
“They’re speaking Croatian,” Max whispered into my ear, gesturing for the waiter to bring us the same as what the others were drinking. I frowned, uncomfortable sitting with strangers. “Don”t worry, everyone knows me here.”
“Do they know you as Max, the concert pianist, or Max, who has an aunt in Hra?e?”
“As Max, who soaked ten shots of vodka and then played Paganini”s Capriccio 24 without a single mistake.”
“Ma ?to govori?, dru?e[8],” laughed one of the men seated at the table, and then, twirling a finger at his temple, he said to me in broken Spanish, “Crazy Austrian… Austriaco loco.”
The waiter arrived with two cut crystal glasses containing a caramel-colored, sweet-smelling liquid.
“It”s home-distilled rakia,” Max said, taking a glass. Then he waved his hand, pretending to pull the liquor out from under the counter.
“Home-distilled? Is that even legal?”
“Well...”
With a shrug, I laughed and took a small sip. It wasn”t bad at all: it tasted like fruit liqueur. I took a couple more sips to empty the glass and banged it down on the table like a buccaneer, to the delight of our tablemates.
“Bravo, chica Espa?ola!” they shouted, clapping their hands in amusement, one beating his chest with his fists in admiration.
“I think you should drink a little more slowly unless you intend to sleep under the table,” suggested Max.
“Or maybe, if I drink ten glasses, I”ll become a violin virtuoso,” I replied, gesturing toward the bartender to bring another. “Or some other... instrument.”
Max clicked his tongue.
“As you wish...”
After the second shot, all the men at the table became forty-five percent more attractive, especially Max.
Despite the little Spanish the Croatians spoke, we couldn”t stop laughing, united by the universal language of rakia and the desire to forget everything for one night.
I left the third glass half-full, fearing that Max”s warning would come true.
“I think we should go,” I said, pushing the glass toward him. “Although the idea of sleeping under the table is much more appealing than going back to my hostel tonight.”
“You can come to my house,” he offered. “I”ll sleep on the couch, don”t worry.”