The Ghost of the Cake

By noon, the Adriatic sun was no longer shining—it was pressing down, flattening Dubrovnik into glare and heat, turning the old stones into mirrors of white and molten gold. From a third-floor window tucked deep in the tangled streets of Ploče, the air drifted in heavy with salt and crushed basil. Then, almost shyly at first, another scent began to claim the room—warm, sweet, intentional—the quiet announcement that a cake was coming into being.

Paula, a woman of twenty-four with a riot of dark curls barely contained by a patterned silk scarf, stood in a kitchen that was a battlefield of good intentions. Flour dusted the countertops like the first fall of snow on Mount Srđ. Eggshells lay in a sacrificial pile. In the center of this delicious chaos sat a mixing bowl, where she was fiercely creaming butter and sugar, her arm a piston of determination.

The cake was for her kuma, her godmother, Antonija. Kuma Antonija was a pillar of old Dubrovnik, a woman who spoke in proverbs and could silence a room with a single, arched eyebrow. She was recovering from a hip operation, and Paula, the family’s "creative spirit" (a euphemism, she knew, for "delightfully unpredictable"), had vowed to bake her a Mađarica, a legendary Hungarian-style chocolate layer cake. It was an ambitious choice, a five-layer symphony of thin sponge and rich chocolate glaze. Paula was on layer three.

“Is that the map of the New World,” a voice drawled from the kitchen doorway, “or are you just planning to mortar the walls with your batter?”

Paula didn’t need to look up. The sardonic, warm baritone belonged to Davor, her cousin. He leaned against the frame, a tall, lean figure in a faded Radiohead t-shirt and shorts, holding two small coffees. His hair was sun-bleached at the tips from days spent leading kayak tours for tourists around the city walls.

“It’s called texture, you philistine,” Paula shot back, gesturing with her whisk at a slightly lopsided, golden disc cooling on a rack. “And that’s layer three. The foundation of flavor.”

Davor placed a coffee next to her and took a slow sip of his own, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Ah, I see. So layer one is ‘The Great Wall of Dubrovnik,’ layer two is ‘Pothole on Stradun,’ and layer three… let me guess, ‘The Leaning Tower of Ploče’?”

“Ha ha,” Paula said, pouring her batter onto a fresh baking sheet, her tongue peeking out in concentration as she smoothed it. “Just you wait. Kuma will take one bite and forget she even has a hip.”

“She might forget her own name if she tries to digest that,” Davor said, nodding toward a bowl of chocolate glaze simmering on the stove. “What’s in the glaze? Chocolate and… existential dread? It has a certain greyish hue.”

“It’s dark chocolate, you cretin. The finest from Slobo. Not the milky childish stuff you consume.”

He wandered over to the stove, picked up a spoon, and gave the glaze a speculative stir. “Thick. Could probably use it to repair the city walls after the next storm. Very patriotic of you, Paula. Serving the Republic of Ragusa even in your confectionery.”

She swatted at him with a oven mitt. “Stop jiggling the stove! The consistency is delicate. This isn’t your brute-force peka meat, you cave-man. This is subtlety. This is art.”

“This is a potential biohazard,” he chuckled, but his eyes were fond. Their teasing was a lifelong dialect, a call-and-response as familiar as the sound of the sea against the rocks below. He perched on a stool, watching as she maneuvered the baking sheet into the oven with a dramatic flourish. “So, what’s your plan? March into Kuma’s with this leaning tower of Pisa and have her pronounce you the new queen of Dubrovnik desserts?”

“Something like that,” Paula said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a faint smudge of flour. “It’s about care. About showing her that I can be… dependable.”

“Dependably chaotic,” Davor corrected gently. “Remember the ‘seafood risotto’ that gave Uncle Josip a week of memorable heartburn? Or the ‘refreshing lavender lemonade’ that tasted like grandmother’s soap?”

“Those were experiments! This is a classic.” She checked the oven timer, her face glowing from the heat. “This will be perfect. It has to be.”

For the next hour, Davor stayed, his playful commentary a constant soundtrack. He compared her layer stacking to a game of Jenga played by a seismologist. He suggested she use a spirit level for the glaze. He wondered aloud if the dense cake could be used as a doorstop, or perhaps as a foundation stone for a new summer villa. Paula retaliated by flinging chocolate-smeared spatulas at him and threatening to replace his kayak paddles with her failed first layer.

Finally, the moment arrived. The five layers, each admittedly with a unique character and slight topographic variation, were assembled. Paula poured the glossy, now perfectly rich chocolate glaze over the top, working quickly to coax it over the sides. It pooled and dripped, covering a multitude of sins. She stood back. It was… monumental. A dark, glossy, slightly asymmetrical monolith of chocolate.

“Behold,” she whispered, a mix of pride and terror in her voice.

Davor came to stand beside her. He studied it with the gravity of a sommelier inspecting a rare vintage. He leaned in, sniffed. “Hmm. Notes of cocoa… defiance… and a hint of desperation.” He put a brotherly arm around her shoulders. “You know what? It’s ugly as sin, but I bet it tastes fantastic. Kuma will love it because you made it. Now, for the love of St. Blaise, let’s get it to her before the glaze melts in this heat or you decide to add a decorative moat.”

Carefully, they boxed the cake. They walked through the narrow, sun-dappled streets of Ploče, Paula cradling the box like a holy relic, Davor clearing a path through the throngs of tourists. The medieval walls rose above them, stern and timeless, a contrast to Paula’s fragile, chocolatey offering.

Kuma Antonija’s apartment was a cool, dark cave of antiques and lace. She sat in a high-backed chair, a regal figure with a knitted blanket over her knees. Her eyes, sharp as flint, took in Paula’s flour-dusted scarf and Davor’s mischievous grin.

“My dears,” she said, her voice like dry paper. “You brought the summer in with you. And what is this? A tribute?”

“I made you a Mađarica, Kuma,” Paula said, her bravado fading into youthful shyness. She opened the box.

Kuma Antonija peered at the cake. A long, silent moment passed. Davor held his breath, ready to deflect any criticism with a joke.

“It has character,” the old woman pronounced finally, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Like the city itself. Not perfectly straight, but strong. Let us taste this character.”

Paula cut three slices. The layers held, the glaze shone. They each took a bite. The flavor was, in a word, incredible. Rich, deep, perfectly balanced between sweet and bitter. Paula’s eyes widened in triumph. She shot a look at Davor that screamed, See!

He chewed, nodded in genuine surprise. “Okay. Okay, Paula. You were right. This is… spectacular.”

Kuma Antonija took a slow, deliberate bite. She closed her eyes. “Mmm. The chocolate is excellent. A bold choice. The layers are… distinct.” She opened her eyes and fixed Paula with a knowing look. “You worried over this like it was a state treaty. I can taste the worry. A little more vanilla next time, less anxiety.”

Paula laughed, the tension breaking. They ate their cake, drinking small cups of strong, black coffee. Davor told exaggerated tales of tourist misadventures on the kayaks, and Kuma shared gossip about neighbors that was centuries old. The cake, this solid, chocolate embodiment of Paula’s effort, sat at the center of the table, slowly diminishing.

As the afternoon light softened, Kuma grew tired. They cleared the plates. “Leave the rest,” Kuma insisted. “I will have a slice with my medicine later. It will make the pills taste better.”

Back in Paula’s kitchen, the mess remained. Davor helped her wash up. “Told you,” he said, bumping her shoulder with his. “A triumph. Even the Leaning Tower of Pisa is a wonder of the world.”

Flushed with success and relief, Paula decided to clean the used cake pans. She placed the dirty, chocolate-smeared baking sheets on the stovetop. She scrubbed bowls in the sink, listening to Davor’s plan for a late-night swim at Banje Beach.

A strange smell began to permeate the room, cutting through the citrus scent of the dish soap. Not burning food, exactly. More acrid. Chemical.

“Do you smell that?” Davor asked, sniffing the air.

Paula turned, and her blood ran cold. A lazy blue flame was licking up the side of the oven, where a curl of parchment paper from one of the baking sheets had drifted onto the active burner. It had caught fire, and now the flames were dancing against the chocolate residue on the pan, blackening it, spreading.

“O, Bože!” she cried.

Davor moved instantly, a practiced calm replacing his teasing. “Step back.” He grabbed the box of baking soda from the shelf and dumped it over the stovetop. A white cloud erupted, smothering the flames with a hiss. In seconds, it was over. Just a blackened, smoldering pan, a stovetop covered in sickly grey powder, and the sharp, ugly smell of burnt sugar and chocolate hanging in the air.

They stood in stunned silence, the adrenaline pulsing. Then Davor looked at the ruined pan, at Paula’s horrified face, and started to laugh. It was a deep, helpless, wheezing laugh that doubled him over.

“Wh-what?” Paula stammered, shock giving way to indignation.

“You… you…” he gasped, pointing a trembling finger. “You saved the cake! You got it to Kuma! It was glorious! And then… and then you came home and burned the cake!” He howled, tears streaming down his face. “Not the cake, but the ghost of the cake! The cake’s mortal remains!”

The absurdity of it hit her. The meticulous effort, the triumphant tasting, the elder’s approval—all culminating in this final, chaotic, smoky punctuation mark. A giggle escaped her, then another, and soon she was clinging to the counter, laughing so hard her stomach ached. They laughed until the fear was gone, until the only thing left in the kitchen was the smell of their shared history, of mischief and love and inevitable, beautiful disaster.

In the end, after all the teasing, the striving, the love, and the triumph, Paula’s offering to the gods of domesticity was not a perfect Mađarica, but the memory of its sublime taste, and the sight of its burning cake.