37
“Vesna.”
Max”s voice woke me, and I opened my eyes, not remembering where I was. I saw the time on a nineties-style alarm clock. It read three o”clock in the morning.
“Vesna, I”m leaving,” whispered Max.
He was standing next to the bed in his tiny apartment. He was carrying a backpack on one shoulder and his violin case on the other.
“I need to be in Vienna by eight o”clock in the morning,” he continued. “My mother will be downstairs if you need anything.”
I raked my brain, and in a brief moment of lucidity, I recalled that we had arrived in Ljubljana at dinnertime after the trouble with the car. I also remembered that this time, Max actually had slept on the couch, and I had done nothing to stop him.
He left quietly, and I forgot to ask him when he would be back. As soon as I heard the door close, I turned over and pulled the duvet over my head. I tried to fall asleep again but didn’t succeed.
I thought endlessly about my mother”s story, dismayed to discover that my father had died in a fight with his best friend, and all because of her and her deceptions.
No wonder her soul had been cast out of heaven or wherever the souls of the departed went. If it were up to me, she would remain banished for the rest of eternity as long as she stopped bothering me with her sorrows.
After hours of tossing and turning, dawn eventually rose, and the radiant morning sun broke through the skylight, forcing me out of bed. I checked if I had any messages on my cell phone, but there were none from either Max or Pedro. I hadn”t heard from the latter since my departure. I remembered Indira”s email and tried to open the attachment one more time. ‘File not supported’ appeared again on the screen. I read the accompanying email again:
‘Look what I found. Your grandmother had dozens of postcards exactly like this one, one for each year until she left Yugoslavia. Tell me if you see the same thing I’m seeing.’
That morning, there was no breakfast tray from the sullen Austrian matron. I was quite hungry, but I was glad anyway. The last thing I felt like doing was talking to Max”s mother. I got dressed, grabbed my bag, and headed out onto the street, ready to find something to quiet my rumbling stomach.
I crept down the stairs, but unfortunately, Max”s mother was waiting for me with her arms crossed, standing in front of the door.
“What are you doing here?” she asked me in her strong German accent.
“Excuse me, I was just leaving,” I said, looking for my shoes among the piles of footwear that flooded the hall. “Your son invited me to stay overnight.”
“Leave my son alone,” she muttered in a threatening tone. “Maximilian should be with Lana, not wasting his time with riffraff like you.”
I blinked in disbelief at the audacity of this woman who dared to intrude into her son”s life in such a way. I swallowed hard and tried to silence the part of me that was dying to answer her with the contempt her comments deserved.
“I”ve already told you that he invited me. I think he”s old enough to decide for himself.” I replied. Then I opened the door, eager to get out of there. “If you don”t mind, I”ll come back for my suitcase later. Good day to you, too.”
I left before she could reply and went out into the street, holding my head high. However, for a long time, I was unable to shake off the uneasy feeling that our unpleasant conversation had left me with.
The spring sun bathed Ljubljana, filling it with limpid, pastel tones. I passed by the St. James Bridge, the ?entjakobski most, admiring the reflection of the narrow, multicolored houses breaking over the water. It was a photographer”s dream. It was Sunday morning, and the occasional family was strolling, rummaging through the flea market and the stalls of earrings and necklaces that were setting up by the river. Some passersby wore suits, and my mind flew back to my job at Asemad. Sooner or later, I would have to return to the office, if only to pick up my things or, at least, my dismissal slip. I walked aimlessly through the narrow streets of the old town, looking at the riverside cafes, searching for somewhere good but cheap to sit and enjoy the morning sun.
While looking for a breakfast spot, I came across an open copy shop full of tourist souvenirs. I remembered Indira”s email and went in to ask if they could print the file, as my phone couldn’t open it. I managed to make myself understood, and the employee asked me to forward him the email. It took him just a few minutes to print the image, and then he put it in an envelope. I paid with a couple of coins and left.
A delicious aroma of freshly baked croissants led me to a nearby coffee shop. I sat down on the crowded terrace and ordered a cappuccino, ready to analyze the contents of the envelope as I sipped my delicious frothy coffee.
I swept the crumbs off the table with my hand and opened the envelope to examine the file. I found a rather nondescript printed image: it was a simple postcard with two scribbled lines:
“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from your friend, Enzo Rossi.”
The card was dated December 1960, with the postmark of a post office in Nova Gorica. It had been sent to Mrs. Carmen Marija Br?ljan at an address in Bled.
So, my grandmother and Mr. Rossi stayed in touch after the war.
I found it endearing, though not particularly exciting. There had to be something else. Something I wasn”t seeing. What could have caught Indira”s attention in that simple postcard? The text wasn’t very personal, and, as the email said, he wrote the same thing every year. Sure, the address gave away the location of the house in Bled, but at that point, I couldn’t care less.
I folded the paper and put it back in the envelope, wondering what to do until Max returned. I sent him a text message asking when he would be back. I had no intention of spending the day at home with his mother, so I would be forced to walk around Ljubljana until his return.
After breakfast, I wandered aimlessly until I reached the famous Triple Bridge, where many tourists took advantage of the soft morning light to take snapshots. On the other side of the bridge stood a greenish bronze statue of France Preseren, the most famous Slovenian poet of all time. Behind him stood Julia, his muse, a woman who never paid him any attention because he wasn’t wealthy enough for her mother”s standards. Cultured, beautiful, and obedient, poor Julia ended up married to a rich man who cheated on her and mistreated her all her life. She never met the poet who adored her so much in person. But even so, the love poems Jakob wrote for Julia became incredibly famous and undoubtedly reached her longing ears.
I contemplated the statues of the poet and his idealized muse, feeling a little depressed at the thought that Preseren never bothered to write such passionate verses to Ana, the flesh-and-blood woman who bore his three children.
Easy things were never attractive to poets.
Nor to anyone.
I sighed and dialed Indira”s phone. Reaching her wasn”t easy, given the randomness of her work schedule at the ER.
“How’s it going in Europe?” she greeted me. I could hear the wind whistling down the line as if she were walking down the street. “I”m getting off the bus now. I get on at nine, so I can”t talk much.”
“Do you usually work on a Sunday?” I asked.
“Well, I keep telling patients not to injure themselves on holidays, but they never listen to me.”
Her joke made me laugh.
“I managed to open the file you sent me, but I don”t know what you meant in the email. I see nothing special.”
“Seriously? Didn’t you notice?” Indira mumbled a couple of greetings as she walked, and I guessed that she must be entering the hospital while talking to me.
“Notice what, though? I don”t get it,” I answered, approaching the base of Preseren’s statue, where several tourists were sunbathing.
“Take a better look at it. Look at the signature!”
I took the paper out of the envelope and sat down at Preseren”s feet to study the card one more time.
“I don”t know. I don”t see anything in...” I said and stopped midsentence.
Suddenly, I understood what she meant.
The postcard had been signed by Enzo Rossi in his own handwriting. The capital E had an unmistakable zigzag shape, one I had seen elsewhere before.
“Now you”ve noticed, haven”t you?” Indira said, laughing on the other end of the phone. “It wasn”t a Viking rune after all. I”ll leave you to it. I have to get changed. Kisses! I”ll call you when I get out of here.”
I sat frozen, staring at the scanned postcard, unable to believe my eyes.
That letter E was the same... exactly the same as the one on my wooden pendant.