by Dave Leo, May 2013
In August of 1964, Destiny put Her cards on the table, and I dropped out of the Aeronautical Engineering program at Brooklyn Poly, just 24 credits short of graduation. Two days later, I was getting my passport stamped and being interrogated, getting off the plane in Ljubijana, Slovenia. If Ludmilla T. hadn't intervened for me, I'd probably still be answering questions.
We hugged, grabbed my bags, hopped the train to Postojna then the mail shuttle (a Dehavilland Dash 7 turboprop) to Sezana, just 10 kilometers from the eastern Italian border. Ludmilla's cottage was like you see in travel videos of wonderful places to be, but I was wiped out and fell face down on the air matress and slept like I was dead.
Eighteen hours later, the smell of coffee and fried peppers and sausage woke me up. "Here, this will fix you" she said and it pretty much did. Had to be the strongest breakfast espresso I ever heard of. I had another cup when that was done, and then some food (and not a little of it either), and we settled in for a talk.
"What's this you asked about pivo? You come all this way for beer?"
"No, Ludmilla, not just beer - rootbeer, the legendary Slavic rootbeer. Look here". I showed her the New York Times article that Destiny had laid on my Sunday breakfast table just a few days ago. "The rootbeer that dreams are made of, " I said, my eyes twinking with excitement, ". . . the legendary rootbeer of Slovenia. I must learn how to make it."
She looked out the corner of her eyes, away from me, and spoke to some imaginary person. "He wants to make nebes pivo, this one. Just like that", and she waved her hand in the air, "kot magija, like magic" and she snickered. She looked back at me, "You should go home and finish school and get a job. Buy all the rootbeer you want."
"I don't want a job, Ludmilla. I want to make nebes pivo - heaven's beer, like in this paper", I waved the article in the air.
Ludmilla was a good friend. We went to high school together, then her father took her back home, died a year later and left her with this cottage in the middle of a very beautiful nowhere. She made enough money weaving new carpets and repairing old ones, and selling yogurt she made from goats milk and clover honey. She wasn't pretty in a delicate, feminine way, but she was very handsome to look at no matter which way she turned her head. Her hair was dark and wavy and all over the place (she cut it herself). She was built like a woman sure enough but she walked and held herself like a farmer, not a farm girl, a farmer. But like I said, she was good to look at every way she turned. I didn't love her, but I liked her a lot more than I liked almost anyone at that time.
We talked about nebes pivo between doing chores and errands, for the rest of that week, until she understood that I wasn't going home until I got what I came for.
"Come, we go talk to Mikal about this dream of yours." And we took the horse cart over the hill to Mikal Korov's cabin and knocked on the door unannounced. "Go away." "It's me, Ludmilla, and I have a friend from America." "Ludmilla? Oh, Ludmilla. Send your friend home and then come in." "No, he is with me, so we both come in or we both go home."
Long wait. Door latch clicks. "Come in then. Your friend too."
Mikal was as big as a bear, and you'd also have a tough time deciding which one was the bear. He was a Russian immigrant who found his paradise and settled down. I showed him the Times article and he laughed. "Those people. Two years ago they come to ask about my rootbeer. They have nothing to print today, huh!, so they print about me." He laughed a lot at that. "I am famous Russian hermit who makes nebes pivo, heaven's beer" - he slapped the paper- "says right here", and he roared again. "So, what it is that you want, heh? My way to make heaven's beer, huh? Of course. Everyone wants to know about this. But I won't tell. No one. Only Mikal knows. It was his destiny to know this." (He began speaking of himself in the third person.)
"Mikal's destiny I tell you was learn to make heaven's beer. His destiny. My destiny."
I listened but talked little, because I could feel that Mikal liked to be listened to. He was funny and stubborn and kind and tough in his talking, and went on like a train with a head of steam and was now unstoppable. He talked more than an hour straight. About Russia, his emigration and the root beer he learned to make.
Then he ran out of breath. Literally. Had a tough time catching his breath, and he sweat a bit, and became quiet. I looked over at Ludmilla for something to say, but she just clasped her hands and looked out the window at nothing out there.
I stayed silent.
"I am tired now", he said. "I lie down. Come here tomorrow again." She hugged him, I waved my hand, we left.
Well, Mikal was a good man. Over the next few months we got to know each other, and I began to admire him. Not just his character, I mean, him. His soul, actually, is what I admired.
The months rolled along. I basically became part of Ludmilla's place and worked like a horse ("delal kot konj", they say) and picked up a lot of the local language. But eventually, I needed to know one way or the other if I was ever going to learn how to make heaven's beer. So one day I put it bluntly to Mikal.
"I tell you what", he said. "I'll ask you to pay something for it, okay?" I was confused and anxious about this. He wants money?
"Here is what I want from you. To live here for all your life. You. Here. The rest of your life. And I will teach you how to make my rootbeer."
"Slovenia? You ask me to spend the rest of my life here in Slovenia?" I knew that was hurtful to say the instant it came out of my mouth. Ludmilla looked down, her eyes got wet. Mikal glared at me.
Yesterday afternoon, Ludmilla knocked on the door of my cabin. "Dave. Dave, it's Ludmilla. I have someone who wants to see you." "Go away. You can come in, but send your friend away." "No, he is with me. He is from the news in New York. Like 50 years ago, like 50 years ago,when they came to talk to Mikal."
"Dave", he said through the closed door, " I came to talk to you about the rootbeer. The keg you entered in the contest."
"What contest, I sent nothing to a contest."
"It was me, Dave, I did it", she said. I opened the door. "You?" "Yes, it was me."
"Dave", he went on, "Dave, we have to know, we must know. How do you make the stuff? There is no question at all. It was absolutely, absolutely the World's Finest Keg of Rootbeer".