Despite this slight unease, they began to feel ever more at home on board and in their private little cabin, the only hint of annoyance continued to be at dinner in the restaurant, where the food was good, but the loud lady a couple of tables away was starting to fray their nerves. On the brighter side, they were also beginning to get to know their waiter, a Filipino called Angelo. At first they had thought he was uninterested, but they came to realise that in fact he was just kept very busy indeed. When he did have a moment, he would often come and talk to them, and they were keen to hear about his wife and young son and daughter back home in their small town, two hours north of Manila. He was counting down the days, even the meals, until he could return to see them in September:
“283 more breakfasts, 283 more lunches, 283 more dinners!”
It felt to Fergus and Sylvie that this was an awfully long countdown. Even then, it turned out his leave would not be much of a holiday as, when home, he described how he helped his parents on their farm. His priority was seeing and helping his family, not relaxing, which he explained (without meaning any criticism of the passengers) only left him bored.
As for the noisy lady, they had managed to control their irritation on the Monday evening, but by the Tuesday Fergus found himself getting edgy, watching her out of the corner of his eye as he ate. She would lean forward and sideways, her head angled, to hear what the smartly dressed couple at the next table were saying. As soon as there was an opportunity, she would jump in, embarking on a loud anecdote of her own, always concluding with a booming guffaw:
“… and then I said to him ‘you can feel my buns anytime!’ Hahahahahahah!”
Fergus winced and Sylvie looked at him sympathetically and conspiratorially. Worse, the couple’s waiter seemed to be encouraging her, even bringing out a guitar to sing her a ballad, over which she loudly enthused, while her husband sat there, silent and superfluous.
“The restaurant’s lovely…” Fergus said, as they strolled back to their cabin, “but I don’t think I can stand that woman for three weeks! We may have to eat more often back in the buffet.”
“It’s bad luck, but don’t let it spoil things, let’s see how we go,” Sylvie replied soothingly.
They had avoided the Poseidon Theatre on the Monday night because a comedian had been performing and, for both of them, the reward of being entertained by a good comic wasn’t worth the risk of the forced laughter required by a bad one, or the embarrassment if he were crude. Instead, after dinner, they had relaxed back in the Conservatory Bar, sipping Pimm’s and listening to the pianist. However, on the Tuesday night, the singers and dancers were scheduled to be performing again and Fergus and Sylvie were both keen to go. Sure enough, the troupe put on another good effort, given they were performing on a small stage rolling around in the middle of the Atlantic. Fergus tried hard not to stare at the dancer who had spoken to him from the side of the pool, making a point of spending time looking at the others in order to justify fleeting glimpses towards her. If she saw him she didn’t show it, but he wasn’t naive, he knew that to her he was just one of hundreds of much older men on board, to be replaced by hundreds more in a couple of weeks or so. He brought back no memories in her, but to him the resemblance was definitely there. It wasn’t precise, in fact it was subtle, but still somehow haunting: she was a dancer; not dissimilar in size, hair and eyes; she was even about the age his daughter had been when she had died. The similarity was by no means uncanny, yet it was enough to provide a glimpse back through time.
After the show, the entire cast had somehow made their way from backstage and were waiting in the foyer as people left the theatre. Fergus saw his dancer there, relaxed, chatting and oblivious to the deep impression she had made on him. She noticed him approaching and, teasingly, mimed doing the breast stroke in his direction. He felt awkward and slow witted, not sure what to do or say, finally settling on a smile and a simple:
“It was a great show.”
He and Sylvie walked a lap of the serenely quiet deck, drawing in deep breaths of Atlantic oxygen. He cursed to himself how, even in his early sixties, an attractive young woman could so destabilise his equilibrium, though he knew there was more to it than that. They ambled back to the cabin, Sylvie unaware of this mental wrestling going on in her husband’s mind. Had she been alert to it, she would not have been annoyed, still less jealous, but would have immediately recognised her husband’s feelings as rather typical of the grieving man she loved, someone adept at tormenting himself and who rarely made his own life easy.
6
Ljubljana – August 2004
Jones stepped out of the Hotel Kristina at about ten o’clock. It had been a long, hot, very full few days in which he, his best friend Ben, along with their other two friends, Andreas and Jack, had pooled their funds, hired a car and driven a grand tour of Slovenia. The adage that the best things come in small packages had proved accurate and, to Jones, the country seemed to be a little known haven of forests, lakes, mountains, rivers, hills and villages, along with a few small cities and just twenty-seven miles of north eastern Adriatic coast. He had been a little cautious not to sound too sensitive about Slovenia in front of his friends, but nevertheless it had made a deep impression.
They had flown in on Thursday afternoon, staying in Ljubljana that night, getting their first feel for this little capital city, nestled in the foothills of the Julian Alps. They arrived in time to witness a brief surge of activity as locals returned home from work, after which a relaxed calm descended on a town centre busy only with friends and families wandering the streets, taking in the atmosphere and enjoying the restaurants and bars. This was how Jones and his friends had spent their evening too, exploring lazily and conserving their energies for the more demanding days ahead.
On the Friday morning their tour had started in earnest. They hired the car and made the short drive to Bled, passing numerous wooden hayracks dotted around the countryside, like wall bars from a gym placed randomly in fields, but upon which the local farmers dried their crops. Some were simple structures, but others had sides and roofs, small buildings even constructed on top of them, almost as if they were somebody’s home, though Jones didn’t suppose they were. At the time, he wasn’t even sure what purpose they served, but they added to a traditional charm which left him jealous that his own country’s rural culture was rather less valued, ever increasingly squeezed by expanding cities, and scarred by the transport links between them.
Lake Bled itself was exquisitely pretty with its island church, to and from which a tiny ferry shuttled visitors without worrying about the need for a timetable. From a cliff top high above, a castle hung precariously over the water, offering those with the energy for a climb the reward of panoramic vistas and a refreshing mountain breeze. The friends scrambled up and gazed out across the lake, the island church and the Slovenian countryside beyond. Jones felt blissful, as if he could easily have remained there all day, drawing the air deep into his lungs and imprinting the scene on his mind. All too soon though, their planned itinerary demanded they scrambled back down, in order to walk the two hour circuit of the shoreline. Half way round and looking back across the water – between the island church to their right and the cliff top castle high to their left – they could see straight through to the Alps, which appeared to be brooding as dark clouds gathered moodily around their peaks, a portent of a stormy end to another day.
By the time the rain began falling on the lake, they were already back in Bled itself, relaxing in the warm glow of an inn, drinking from pitchers of beer and taking lucky dip from a menu they couldn’t understand. They suspected English versions would have been available had they asked, but somehow that would have detracted from their sense of adventure and of being somewhere new and wonderfully foreign.
The following morning they had driven on to Slovenia’s largest lake, Bohinj, which Jones had found altogether wilder, further off the beaten track than Bled
and more ruggedly beautiful, set deep in its mountain surrounds. They had walked around it, meeting only a handful of other hikers in the four hours it took them to complete the circuit. Those they did meet were invariably better equipped than them and much fitter, striding forward at speed, even the older ones, planting their hiking sticks with each step and exchanging a cheerful “dober dan!” with the boys as they passed, before quickly receding into the distance behind them. By comparison, Jones and his friends progressed slowly, but it did not matter and there was no rush. All the same, they greeted the reappearance of their car with relief, finally removing their boots and able to nurse their aching ankles and feet.
Satisfied with their efforts, they recovered for a short while in a nearby guesthouse, over coffee and slices of a layered pastry, a local delicacy containing ricotta, apples, raisins and walnuts. Jones pondered how even the cakes were nutritious in this healthy corner of the world. Energies restored, they drove on to Nova Gorica by the Italian border where, that evening, they straddled the frontier, not physically, but through their choice of hearty Slovenian foods and cold Italian beers, before collapsing into bed.
The next day, Sunday, had been spent on the Adriatic coast, wandering the cliffs and stony beaches of Strunjan and eating at the buffet in the local spa hotel. From the shore, it was possible for Jones to look right across the Adriatic to the coastline the other side of the bay. So close to Italy – he thought – and yet in its language, food and culture, Slovenia felt less western European and more a gateway to the mysterious Balkans beyond.
They spent the evening exploring the narrow streets and piazzas of the nearby Venetian styled town of Piran. Had it been located on the coasts of Italy or France, it would no doubt have been bustling with tourists, its lanes clogged up with their buses. It would certainly also have been the backdrop to countless magazine covers of skinny supermodels sulking and skulking around its dark, lazy interior, the Adriatic shimmering behind them in the distance. However, tucked away as it was here, Piran remained a hidden gem, familiar only to those in the know or who, through good fortune, stumbled upon its charms.
On their way back to Ljubljana the next day, they visited the caves in Postojna, marvelling at the light railway that wended through the stalactites and stalagmites to a cavernous chamber deep underground. For half an hour or so, they explored this subterranean world which, for millennia before the first little train arrived, must have remained undisturbed, home only to the blind Salamander living in its cold waters, and to its small, invertebrate prey. Suddenly, the lights went out – a standard surprise for the tourists – swallowing them in a blackness that was pitch and complete: hands could not be seen even as they brushed the lashes in front of eyes which, as the Salamander had found aeons ago, served no purpose here. Ears were barely more useful and, in the darkness, Jones became aware of the total silence, punctuated only by the sound of irregular dripping, each drop sending a slightly different tone ringing through the amplifying acoustics of the caves, an eerie soundtrack to this alien world.
Without thinking, Jones stretched out his arms and waved them in front of him, as if to explore the darkness, and, to his horror, his left fist knocked weightily into someone, provoking a short cry of shock or pain. A moment later, the lights came back on, revealing a young woman to his left, grimacing slightly as she rubbed the side of her head.
“Oprostite!” Jones said, mortified at his clumsiness, but also with a hint of pride at his recently learned ability to apologise in Slovene. The woman did not reply, instead she smiled stoically from beneath the peak of an old baseball cap, thereby reassuring him no serious harm had been done. For an instant, as her gaze lingered, he was struck by how attractive she seemed, though much of her face was shaded and she quickly turned away. Meanwhile, laughs of relief echoed through the chamber as, able to see once more, the four friends and their fellow visitors continued their exploration, eventually coming back to the little train which, once all were aboard, meandered back up to the surface. They were briefly blinded again as they emerged, this time by the bright daylight of their own world, one the Salamander could not have begun to imagine. Jones briefly wondered whether such an unimagined world might exist for humans too, one of still greater light and colour perhaps, if only they had the senses to detect it, but this was no more than a passing thought.
On arrival back in Ljubljana that evening, they had returned their hire car and checked into the hotel, before heading straight back out to enjoy the city.
And so, standing outside his hotel on Tuesday morning, Jones looked back at their itinerary with some satisfaction: they had made the most of their short stay, striking that difficult balance between seeing as much as possible but without ever rushing. Now back in the small but modern Capital – the road in front of him busy at the start of a new working day – Jones felt that the Slovenians had, despite an occasionally traumatic history, also maintained a balance: that of developing their country successfully whilst safeguarding and valuing the countryside, culture and traditions which were at its soul.
The plan for today was to explore Ljubljana and then to enjoy a final night out, before flying home the following morning. One by one, his three friends joined him outside the hotel, all feeling lazy in the building heat. They were, though, to make the most of their last day, exploring the city centre and climbing the hill to the castle, from the turret of which they enjoyed more spectacular views, this time of the city below and of the mountains rising in the distance, separating them from Austria. Late in the afternoon, they finally collapsed in Tivoli Park, spending two hours recovering from their exertions and recalling all the things they had seen and done over the preceding days in a country they were about to leave, but where they were beginning to feel rather at home.
As evening fell, they finally made their way out of the park to where the turquoise Ljubljanica river flows through the heart of the city, closely lined on one side with bustling cafés and restaurants. Although it was a week-day, the fine weather had brought out the crowds and finding an outdoors spot to eat was proving challenging. Finally, Ben spotted a table for six, occupied by a lone, young woman outside a traditional looking bar.
“Er, may we?” asked Jones hesitantly.
“Of course,” the girl replied.
“Umm, you sound English?” Jones asked, kicking himself at his latest word fumbling.
“Yes I am,” she answered with a smile, “you too?” Jones was confused, both by her slightly knowing look and by an odd feeling that she was faintly familiar. Was he missing something, he wondered? He put the thought out of his mind.
“Yes, we were here for a long weekend, we fly home tomorrow.”
“Oh, thank goodness!”
Jones was momentarily offended that the young woman could be so rude, but then, appearing from behind him, a waiter placed a large orange juice in front of her, its ice clinking loudly as he did so. She immediately picked it up and drank insatiably, almost reaching the bottom of the glass.
“Sorry about that,” she said, slightly embarrassed, “but I thought it would never arrive. I’ve been exploring all afternoon, I think I must have got a bit dehydrated in the heat.” She looked a little uncertain, fearing that in satisfying her thirst so voraciously she may have appeared ill mannered, but Jones was just relieved.
“It could be an interesting evening if you drink your beers like that!” he joked and the young woman laughed, flashing that smile again.
“I’m Jones,” he continued, “and these are my friends: Ben, Andreas and Jack.” The three young men all said “Hi”, reaching out one by one to shake her hand.
“I’m Justine,” she replied, “Justine Fredricks.”
She didn’t know why she had added her surname, it seemed overly formal, businesslike, and she winced internally as she said it. It hadn’t mattered though, as that initial exchange with Jones had opened a new chapter in both their lives: it had crept
up on them stealthily, ambushing them in a place far from home, where neither had been before and which neither would visit again. Of course, they were unaware of this significance at the time, instead they simply relaxed, enjoying the moment, chatting easily over a meal, she secretly jealous of the boys’ wider adventures around Slovenia, they envious of her rail odyssey across a whole continent.
As they exchanged travel tales, Justine knew she was the outsider, but she was also aware that she had become the centre of interest in their evening and she enjoyed the feeling. More than that though, she sensed a growing rapport with Jones. His friends must have felt it too as, after the meal, they made excuses to leave, while he found a reason to stay. And so they chatted on, two hearts beginning the fall into love, both innocent as to how these moments would be treasured in the one destined to beat out a full lifetime; both innocent also that, in less than two years, the other was fated to stop.
In fact, Justine had recognised Jones instantly as the man who had accidently hit her the previous day; she had found his embarrassment rather charming at the time. Seeing him again here had been a surprise and she had been waiting for him to recognise her too, but until now he hadn’t. She rubbed the side of her head and flinched, as if in pain, so as to give him a clue.
“Are you OK?” he asked, suddenly concerned.
“Oh yes, it’s just that some clumsy man knocked me on the head yesterday…” She waited in vain for a reaction. “In the caves? When the lights went out?”
The clues fell into place and Jones flushed red, suddenly realising why she had looked so familiar.
“Ah, I think, maybe…” he stammered.
“I think maybe too,” she interrupted slightly flirtatiously.
Times and Places Page 5