by a sallow man in his thirties with thinning black hair and sad brown eyes beneath which hang the crepe of dark circles. Kidney failure, Alex thinks, handing over their passports.
There are potted plants everywhere—hundreds of them—and gloomy, age-encrusted paintings on the walls that remind Alex of the portraits of his ancestors back home except that these are of a jowly Madonna; a glowering bishop; a naked Holy Infant with sausage legs and a potbelly, wielding a sword.
Ljubljana is divided by a river. On one side is the Old Town, stony and Gothic, with twisting streets leading to Dr. Kis’s office, and on the other is the newer section, with office buildings and modern apartments and the hotel where Alex and Leslie are staying.
Alex and Leslie will waste no time; they are booked to fly home the very next day. Their suite is spacious, with a large bedroom, a sitting room, and two baths. For efficiency’s sake, they shower together, though Alex is out of his shower, dressed—he wears a blue suit, a white shirt, and a dark tie, as if he is on his way to court—and sitting in an armchair by the time Leslie, wrapped in a towel, pulls a modest dress out of her suitcase; he looks on with pleasure.
“You are such a beautiful woman,” Alex says, shaking his head.
“I feel nervous and sad and I wish we weren’t here,” Leslie says, putting on the dress.
“Well, that’s just the kind of positive energy we look for in a time like this,” Alex says.
“I’m sorry, that’s just how it is.” She looks at herself in the mirror on the wardrobe door, straightens her collar, pats her hair, shrugs. “Can you at least promise…”
“You don’t even have to ask,” Alex says, rising. “This is it. The last crusade.”
He takes her in his arms, overcome for a moment by his deep love for her and his regret that he has put them both through so many procedures as he pursues the holy grail of an heir. “If we come up empty here, no more.”
“We can adopt, Alex.”
“Mmm,” he says, burying his face for a moment in her hair.
The man at the front desk calls a taxi for them, and, their bones aching with jet lag and fatigue, they wait, sipping coffee in the courtyard, but no taxi arrives.
“We’re going to be late,” Alex says. He excuses himself for a moment and consults with the desk clerk.
“Castle Trg is just a short walk,” Alex says when he returns, holding an extra-large umbrella the clerk has given him.
“What’s a trg ?” Leslie asks.
“It means ‘street.’ And it’s just over the Dragon Bridge,” he adds, as if he were somehow familiar with this cold, rainy town.
“I don’t think I want to be in a place where streets are called trg and bridges are named after dragons,” Leslie says.
The real stone dragon of Ljubljana sits atop a castle in the hills overlooking the city, but replicas of it are every twenty feet or so on the Dragon Bridge. By the time they get that far, the rain is beating against their umbrella like a drumroll. Suddenly, the wind picks up, tearing their only shelter from Alex’s hands. They watch helplessly as the black umbrella with its upside-down question mark of a handle spins its way down the river with the new city on one side, and the old city on the other.
They run. The storm is so fierce and their chances of staying dry are nonexistent, and somehow the whole thing is so absurdly awful they find themselves holding hands and laughing. Soon they are on Castle Street and facing the gloomy old building in which the doctor works.
A flashing red traffic light beats like a heart in the rain. Alex and Leslie cross the street and are nearly run over by a motorcyclist who, covered against the rain in a long black poncho, looks like Death itself.
The building is from the 1920s, designed in a vaguely Art Deco style. The doorway is curved; the windows are bowed. Two statues of women in robes holding swords guard the second story. Dr. Kis’s office is on the
There are potted plants everywhere—hundreds of them—and gloomy, age-encrusted paintings on the walls that remind Alex of the portraits of his ancestors back home except that these are of a jowly Madonna; a glowering bishop; a naked Holy Infant with sausage legs and a potbelly, wielding a sword.
Ljubljana is divided by a river. On one side is the Old Town, stony and Gothic, with twisting streets leading to Dr. Kis’s office, and on the other is the newer section, with office buildings and modern apartments and the hotel where Alex and Leslie are staying.
Alex and Leslie will waste no time; they are booked to fly home the very next day. Their suite is spacious, with a large bedroom, a sitting room, and two baths. For efficiency’s sake, they shower together, though Alex is out of his shower, dressed—he wears a blue suit, a white shirt, and a dark tie, as if he is on his way to court—and sitting in an armchair by the time Leslie, wrapped in a towel, pulls a modest dress out of her suitcase; he looks on with pleasure.
“You are such a beautiful woman,” Alex says, shaking his head.
“I feel nervous and sad and I wish we weren’t here,” Leslie says, putting on the dress.
“Well, that’s just the kind of positive energy we look for in a time like this,” Alex says.
“I’m sorry, that’s just how it is.” She looks at herself in the mirror on the wardrobe door, straightens her collar, pats her hair, shrugs. “Can you at least promise…”
“You don’t even have to ask,” Alex says, rising. “This is it. The last crusade.”
He takes her in his arms, overcome for a moment by his deep love for her and his regret that he has put them both through so many procedures as he pursues the holy grail of an heir. “If we come up empty here, no more.”
“We can adopt, Alex.”
“Mmm,” he says, burying his face for a moment in her hair.
The man at the front desk calls a taxi for them, and, their bones aching with jet lag and fatigue, they wait, sipping coffee in the courtyard, but no taxi arrives.
“We’re going to be late,” Alex says. He excuses himself for a moment and consults with the desk clerk.
“Castle Trg is just a short walk,” Alex says when he returns, holding an extra-large umbrella the clerk has given him.
“What’s a trg ?” Leslie asks.
“It means ‘street.’ And it’s just over the Dragon Bridge,” he adds, as if he were somehow familiar with this cold, rainy town.
“I don’t think I want to be in a place where streets are called trg and bridges are named after dragons,” Leslie says.
The real stone dragon of Ljubljana sits atop a castle in the hills overlooking the city, but replicas of it are every twenty feet or so on the Dragon Bridge. By the time they get that far, the rain is beating against their umbrella like a drumroll. Suddenly, the wind picks up, tearing their only shelter from Alex’s hands. They watch helplessly as the black umbrella with its upside-down question mark of a handle spins its way down the river with the new city on one side, and the old city on the other.
They run. The storm is so fierce and their chances of staying dry are nonexistent, and somehow the whole thing is so absurdly awful they find themselves holding hands and laughing. Soon they are on Castle Street and facing the gloomy old building in which the doctor works.
A flashing red traffic light beats like a heart in the rain. Alex and Leslie cross the street and are nearly run over by a motorcyclist who, covered against the rain in a long black poncho, looks like Death itself.
The building is from the 1920s, designed in a vaguely Art Deco style. The doorway is curved; the windows are bowed. Two statues of women in robes holding swords guard the second story. Dr. Kis’s office is on the