33
Cheerful Japanese tourists armed with their Nikons plagued the shores of Lake Bled on this splendid May day, which almost felt like July. The place looked exactly like the pictures online but way more crowded than expected. For starters, we had to park a good distance from the views on a wide esplanade crowded with visitors as hopeful as I was, albeit for different reasons. I told myself that in my grandmother Carmen”s time, the lake must have been more peaceful and charming, although, even so, I wouldn”t have traded my life for hers.
After a short walk from the parking lot, we found ourselves in front of the famous lake. A silver mirror, clean and crystalline, proudly reflecting the clear morning sky and the facades of the hotels that surrounded it: some in alpine style, and others evocative of umbrellas, striped bathing suits, and scenes from silent movies. In the middle floated the famous islet, presided over by its ancient stone chapel. Dozens of rented boats rowed from one shore to the other, forming white furrows that drew the arms of a star around the island.
“It”s quite nice,” I admitted, just as an influencer in high heels pushed me out of the way to take a picture without people in the background. “It looks like an anthill, though.”
“Can you imagine your grandparents walking around here?” he said in a fanciful tone. “Holding hands, whispering confidences to each other... maybe they even climbed the chapel steps once and made a wish.”
I stopped to look at him.
“I”d almost say you”ve been reading her diary.”
“Oh, no need,” he laughed. “That”s what everybody does. Everyone wants to ring the bell and ask for something silly.”
“Why do you think it”s silly?”
I stepped aside to avoid a group of children who were walking in a line, holding on to a rope I was about to become entangled in.
“I know from experience,” he answered cryptically.
A few steps from us moored next to the wooden plank dock, I spotted a large boat protected by a striped awning. Several tourists were already onboard, sitting on wooden benches. The boatman, dressed in black and wearing a cap, was gesturing to passersby, attracting their attention with a long oar. When we passed him, he looked at us and shouted something, smiling.
“I’m guessing you don”t want to take a boat ride, do you?” Max asked me with a disgusted look on his face.
I shook my head.
“No. Business first. We are here to find a house, not to go sightseeing.”
“Perfect,” Max said. “What do we know about the house?”
I rummaged through my bag and opened the document Indira had sent me. I saw that I had another email from her, and I made a mental note to open it when I returned to Ljubljana.
‘Abeautiful house with a steep roof and wooden balconies...’ I read aloud. ‘The house is old, dark, and damp but has a fresco of Saint Cecilia playing the piano by the door—she’s the patron saint of musicians. Apparently, everyone in Jakob”s family is or was a pianist…”
“Your grandfather was a pianist?” Max interrupted me, sounding excited.
I shrugged.
“I never got to know him. Anyway, let me finish. ‘The house is set out of town, surrounded by the snowy forest and about a ten-minute walk to the lake.’ And that”s about it. I don”t think there”s anything else. I marked all the important sentences as I was reading.”
“It was a hotel or a guest house. At least that”s what the Italian man said.”
I nodded, and Max scanned the contours of the lake with his eyes.
“Ten minutes from the shore. That”s a pretty big radius, considering all the buildings around here. We”d better start walking as soon as possible.”
We skirted the lake in silence, admiring the view. I imagined Carmen and Jakob walking on the ice and Aunt Miroslava in her black scarf, predicting the birth of my father.
We bordered the lake along the southern shore, trying to leave the larger hotels behind. Max turned off in the opposite direction from the tourist area toward a few smaller houses that dotted the sides of the road. We studied them all, one at a time. Almost all were dark and steep-roofed, but none had a painting of St. Cecilia on the facade.
“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” I grunted, regretting not having bought a bottle of water at the supermarket and knowing that they would cost twice as much in the fine restaurants.
“We”ll ask around,” Max replied doggedly. “Someone must know.”
We started knocking door to door. Many locals refused to open the door―damntourists asking how to get to the lake! ―and those who bothered to answer told us that they hadn’t seen any houses like the one we were looking for.
“I”m dying of thirst,” I said after a while, feeling discouraged. “Any ideas where I can buy water for a normal price?”
Max narrowed his eyes and pointed to a grimy-looking restaurant up the street.
“Is that good enough for you?”
I weighed my options. The first was to dehydrate on that surprisingly hot May day, and the second was to sit on a fancy terrace by the lake and spend what little change I still had left on a pretty bottle of water. The third was to go into this joint and trust that the glasses were cleaner than the windows.
“Well...”
“Come on, don”t be so picky,” Max replied, dragging me inside.
The interior was dark and smelled of stale beer. The walls were covered halfway up with pine planks in the dreadful mountain style that was so popular in the area.
I asked for a bottle of water in my best Slovenian, and the waitress beamed from ear to ear.
“Where are you from?” she asked me in English.
“From here,” I answered reluctantly, seeing that my Slovenian accent wasn’t good enough for her.
I grabbed my bottle and returned to the table, leaving her perplexed behind the bar. Max sat down next to me and began to eavesdrop on a conversation among several older gentlemen who were drinking coffee at the next table. The waitress brought Max a huge puff pastry cake with several inches of white and amber cream, which was apparently called kremsnita and was a local specialty.
“I was thinking—” I said, pouring myself a glass of water.
“Shh,” he shushed me, pointing to the men with his chin as he dug his spoon into the cake. “They”re from here and are talking about the war. Let”s go ask them about your grandmother”s house.”
He got up and talked to them for a few minutes. One of the men sketched something on a napkin and handed it to Max, who returned to our chair.
“Well?” I asked, intrigued.
“We’ve found it,” he replied with a triumphant smile. “Hostel Vita, not far from here. They restored the fa?ade a few years ago and covered the mural of Santa Cecilia. That”s why nobody remembers it anymore. If it weren”t for these gentlemen, we would never have found it.”