28
My mother vanished before my eyes, and I could have sworn a sob escaped her as she uttered those last words. She had never cried in my presence. Not when Dad died, nor on the nights when I found her absolutely plastered, humming to the sound of her old LPs as she lay on the carpet. Becoming a ghost must have softened her heart.
“Mom!” I shouted, trying to get her to come back. She had left halfway through the story again, and I needed to know my father”s reaction when he caught her with Andrey. “Beatriz! Come back!”
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I jumped, petrified that the ghostly voices had found me again.
Luckily, it was only Max.
“Who are you talking to? Who’s Beatriz? And why did you run out of the restaurant like a madwoman?”
I shook my head and leaned against the wall.
“You wouldn”t understand. “
“Maybe I would understand if you”d bother to explain it to me,” he suggested, holding out his hand to pull me up from the floor.
I weighed the possibility of telling him what had really happened, but I dismissed it. He would think I was crazy. No. I couldn”t do it.
“Tell me how much I owe you for the pizza,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter,” Max said, frowning. “It”s really hard to help you if you keep half the stuff from me, you know?”
“I”m not hiding anything from you,” I protested, although I didn”t sound too convincing.
“Whatever. What you just did in the pizzeria didn”t seem very normal to me.”
“I had my reasons,” I replied stubbornly.
Max stared at me, waiting for an explanation, but I kept quiet. How could I tell him that I was being haunted by the spirits of thirty thousand dead Yugoslavians? Seeing that I wasn”t going to say anything else, he folded his arms, a furious expression on his face.
“You know what,” he said. “I’m giving up this quest. You”re on your own. Now you won”t have to share your secrets with anyone, although that wonderful inheritance probably doesn”t even exist.”
“Whatever,” I replied, rising to the bait. “It was you who offered to help me. I didn’t ask you. You know what? You don”t even need to drive me back to Ljubljana. I”ll take the bus.”
Max stared at me in disgust and turned around.
I brushed the dust off my clothes, relieved I had gotten rid of him. At that moment, I saw the Enzo Rossi nameplate bolted to the wall. I had completely forgotten about it.
I swallowed hard, controlling my impulse to shout after him and tell him to bugger off. But my mother was right—I still needed him. Even if only for that afternoon so I could talk to Enzo Rossi.
I realized that I had just behaved like an idiot.
“Max, wait!” I shouted, trying to sound a little more conciliatory. “Look at this, please.”
Reluctantly, he came back and read the text by the door with narrowed eyes.
“So?”
“Enzo Rossi! Don”t you see? We’ve found him!”
“The plaque says that this is a translator”s office. I doubt it”s the same Rossi you”re looking for. If he served in WWII, he”d be ancient by now. I know retirement pensions aren’t great, but working until you”re a hundred years old seems a bit excessive to me.”
“Please, Max. Come with me. I need to talk to this man, whoever he is, and I need your help. I don’t speak the language. And I don”t think it”s a coincidence that I was brought here…”
“Who brought you here?”
“Ah...” I hesitated. “The diary. It was in the diary,” I lied. “I read it there.”
His countenance softened, although his arms remained crossed.
“All right,” he said. “But only this afternoon. Then I”m leaving. I”ve already wasted too much time on you and your inheritance.”
***
I rang the doorbell, and a woman”s voice answered.
“We’re here to see Mr. Enzo Rossi,” said Max over the intercom.
“Upstairs. Second floor.”
The building had one of those old elevators embedded in the staircase inside a black iron cage. I eyed it suspiciously, and we opted to walk up the stairs. When we reached the second floor, an elegant blonde woman in her fifties, dressed in a suit jacket, was waiting by the door. It was immediately clear to me that this wasn’t an office but a private home where the translator also received clients.
“I’m Alenka Rossi, Enzo”s wife. He”ll be right with you. Please come this way.”
We followed her down a hallway full of closed doors, where the smell of lunch―fish―still lingered in the air. Behind one of them, I heard a TV with the volume turned up very high, broadcasting the news in Italian.
The elegant lady ushered us into a small office. At the back was a table with two chairs for clients. We sat down, and Mrs. Rossi went to get her husband.
When Enzo Rossi entered, disappointment flooded me. The man in a suit must have been sixty years old at most, so there was no way he could be the same one my grandmother mentioned in her diary.
“Good morning,” he greeted us. “How can I help you?”
I asked Max to explain the situation, and the man listened kindly.
“Spaniards?” asked the translator after hearing the story. “I speak Spanish, too.”
“Great,” I replied, kicking myself that I didn’t need Max after all. “So, tell me, Mr. Rossi, do you have any idea where I might find the man we described to you, the one with the same name as you?”
“Actually, I think I do. I”m almost sure you’re talking about my father.” He got up and headed for the door while I stifled a cry of joy. “I”ll go get him. He”s just woken up from his nap. But I warn you, he”s very old and gets tired quickly. What’s more, he”s a little deaf and has episodes of dementia. It’s getting worse and worse. But there”s no harm in trying. When he’s having a good day, he”s quite lucid.”
Mr. Rossi left the office and returned a few minutes later, pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair. Enzo Rossi senior was a small, hunched man, his clear eyes framed by thin, round, gold-rimmed glasses. He had a cadaverous air about him, though he retained a good shock of straight white hair, carefully combed with a side parting, evocative of the elegant and authoritative man he must have been decades ago.
“Father,” said his son, shouting to be heard. “These people have come to see you. They’re from Spain, and they want to ask you some questions about the war. Is that all right?”
“The war...” Enzo Rossi spoke in almost perfect Spanish, wringing his bony hands over the plaid blanket that covered his knees. “The stories of the war are all dreadful. It’s better to forget them.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Rossi,” I said, pulling my chair closer to his. I took his hand in mine and shook it. “I”m looking for my family, and I think you might know something about them.”
“What’s your name?” he asked me, coming out of his lethargy a little.
“Br?ljan,” I answered, expecting the same answer I had gotten everywhere.
“Br?ljan!” At the sound of my name, the old man’s eyes widened, and his face lit up with a sudden vitality. “That cannot be… that cannot be!”
He began to mumble something unintelligible under his breath, and his son shook his father’s shoulder as if trying to wake him up.
“Father, please. Focus.”
“What can”t be?” I asked in a gentle voice. “Do you know something about my family, then?”
“Br?ljan is a made-up surname!” the man snapped gruffly.
His son patted the old man’s arm in an attempt to calm him down and gave me an apologetic look.
“Made-up?” I repeated. “No, of course it”s not. It’s my surname. I can show you my passport if you want. What makes you think that?”
“Made-up!” he shouted again. “Of course it is, signorina. Of course it is... Fake... completely fake!”
“I”m sorry,” apologized the son with a shrug. “I told you he has good days and bad days.”
“Silenzio, Vincenzo!” Enzo shouted, slapping the younger man”s arm away. “Of course it”s fake... I know because I made it up myself!”