American men sat down at the next table, and Jadranka struck up a conversation with them in broken English.
“Croatia is a beautiful country,” one of them told her. They both wore hiking boots, and their faces were sunburnt.
“Yes,” she agreed.
“Are you from here?” the other—a blond with very blue eyes—asked, prompting Jadranka to smile coyly.
“I am like you. The stranger.”
Magdalena frowned at this, but her sister was already on a roll, inviting them to guess where she was from.
“Are you Polish?”
“No.”
“Russian?”
“No.”
“French?”
“Non!”
With her red hair, Jadranka did not look Croatian, and this was a favorite game of hers. It had amused Magdalena when they were teenagers, but now she found it tiresome, as if there were some made-up taxonomic system by which people believed all nations could be categorized. An Italian-shaped box for the Italians. A Chinese-shaped box for the Chinese. What would a Croatian-shaped box look like, she wondered? The bones of goats down one side, and grapevines down the other? She imagined it covered with an embroidered tablecloth, like the ones gypsies sold on Rosmarina’s beaches.
“I am the Lapp,” Jadranka told them finally.
This was a departure for her sister, but Magdalena only sighed.
The men looked surprised at this. “Lapp?” asked the blond. “Like from the Arctic?”
“Very good,” she told him. “People often think is in Antarctica.”
“Nobody lives in Antarctica,” he told her.
“No,” she agreed. “Only penguins.”
The other man smiled. “Are you really a Lapp?”
“Yes,” she said. “But tomorrow I go to America.”
They looked at Magdalena as if for confirmation. Her English was better than Jadranka’s. She had studied it in school, and it was one of the subjects she taught, but now she only attempted to catch the waitress’s eye for their bill.
“How long will you be staying?” asked the blond.
As Magdalena studied her sister’s face, Jadranka shrugged. Instead of answering, she spent the next five minutes regaling them with entertaining facts about the Lapps. It was clear to Magdalena that the vast majority of these were made up, ranging from the uktuk building that Lapps lived in to the nicknames they gave their reindeer.
“Akborg, she was my favorite,” she told them. “Her name means rosebud. ”
The blond’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Rosebud,” he repeated in amusement. “I assumed it would be too cold for roses in the Arctic.”
“For ordinary roses,” she conceded. “But this is special, hardy type.”
He grinned. “I think you’re making fun of us.”
“No,” Jadranka insisted, though she herself was smiling broadly now. “Akborgbush. Official plant of Lappish nation.”
When the waitress came over at last, Magdalena reached for the bill. But Jadranka pushed her hand playfully away. “Bad karma, big sister,” she told her in Croatian, forgetting her audience, who had returned to their meal. “I’m the one going on the trip, so I’m the one who has to pay.”
“By whose logic?”
“Mine,” Jadranka insisted, and Magdalena could not help but smile at the decisive way she said this.
When they rose to leave, the blond man at the next table reached over to take Jadranka’s hand. “What’s your name?” he asked her.
She hesitated. “Jay.”
Magdalena’s eyebrows rose at this, but she said nothing.
“Like bluejay?”
“Yes,” she told him. “Okay.”
“I’m Peter. Do you and your friend want to join us for a drink?”
For a moment Magdalena was afraid that her sister would agree, but Jadranka shook her head.
He released her hand. “Okay, Bluejay Rosebud,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you around in America.”
“Maybe,” she told him with a smile, though it was clear to Magdalena that she was already bored with this game.
As night fell they had driven still farther southward, towards the mountains where the Magistrala
“Croatia is a beautiful country,” one of them told her. They both wore hiking boots, and their faces were sunburnt.
“Yes,” she agreed.
“Are you from here?” the other—a blond with very blue eyes—asked, prompting Jadranka to smile coyly.
“I am like you. The stranger.”
Magdalena frowned at this, but her sister was already on a roll, inviting them to guess where she was from.
“Are you Polish?”
“No.”
“Russian?”
“No.”
“French?”
“Non!”
With her red hair, Jadranka did not look Croatian, and this was a favorite game of hers. It had amused Magdalena when they were teenagers, but now she found it tiresome, as if there were some made-up taxonomic system by which people believed all nations could be categorized. An Italian-shaped box for the Italians. A Chinese-shaped box for the Chinese. What would a Croatian-shaped box look like, she wondered? The bones of goats down one side, and grapevines down the other? She imagined it covered with an embroidered tablecloth, like the ones gypsies sold on Rosmarina’s beaches.
“I am the Lapp,” Jadranka told them finally.
This was a departure for her sister, but Magdalena only sighed.
The men looked surprised at this. “Lapp?” asked the blond. “Like from the Arctic?”
“Very good,” she told him. “People often think is in Antarctica.”
“Nobody lives in Antarctica,” he told her.
“No,” she agreed. “Only penguins.”
The other man smiled. “Are you really a Lapp?”
“Yes,” she said. “But tomorrow I go to America.”
They looked at Magdalena as if for confirmation. Her English was better than Jadranka’s. She had studied it in school, and it was one of the subjects she taught, but now she only attempted to catch the waitress’s eye for their bill.
“How long will you be staying?” asked the blond.
As Magdalena studied her sister’s face, Jadranka shrugged. Instead of answering, she spent the next five minutes regaling them with entertaining facts about the Lapps. It was clear to Magdalena that the vast majority of these were made up, ranging from the uktuk building that Lapps lived in to the nicknames they gave their reindeer.
“Akborg, she was my favorite,” she told them. “Her name means rosebud. ”
The blond’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Rosebud,” he repeated in amusement. “I assumed it would be too cold for roses in the Arctic.”
“For ordinary roses,” she conceded. “But this is special, hardy type.”
He grinned. “I think you’re making fun of us.”
“No,” Jadranka insisted, though she herself was smiling broadly now. “Akborgbush. Official plant of Lappish nation.”
When the waitress came over at last, Magdalena reached for the bill. But Jadranka pushed her hand playfully away. “Bad karma, big sister,” she told her in Croatian, forgetting her audience, who had returned to their meal. “I’m the one going on the trip, so I’m the one who has to pay.”
“By whose logic?”
“Mine,” Jadranka insisted, and Magdalena could not help but smile at the decisive way she said this.
When they rose to leave, the blond man at the next table reached over to take Jadranka’s hand. “What’s your name?” he asked her.
She hesitated. “Jay.”
Magdalena’s eyebrows rose at this, but she said nothing.
“Like bluejay?”
“Yes,” she told him. “Okay.”
“I’m Peter. Do you and your friend want to join us for a drink?”
For a moment Magdalena was afraid that her sister would agree, but Jadranka shook her head.
He released her hand. “Okay, Bluejay Rosebud,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you around in America.”
“Maybe,” she told him with a smile, though it was clear to Magdalena that she was already bored with this game.
As night fell they had driven still farther southward, towards the mountains where the Magistrala
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