Work at the bookstore is relentless. Hana wants coffee and something sweet. She didn’t have breakfast this morning and she feels a little dizzy. Lucky it’s nearly the end of her shift and she’ll soon be able to go home and get some sleep. Forget evening reading.
She looks up to call the next customer in line and finds Patrick O’Connor, holding three books and a political journal. He hands them to Hana with a distracted ‘Good evening,’ but when their eyes meet he focuses on her, and then looks totally confused.
‘Good evening.’ Hana smiles, trying to sound as normal as possible. ‘Do you have a loyalty card, Mr O’Connor?’
Now he recognizes her. Still more confused, the shy smile he tries out on her rapidly fades. He pulls out his loyalty card and passes it to Hana, who slides it through the electronic reader.
‘I’m Mark Doda. You’re not wrong there. It’s not a mistake.’
He mumbles something inaudible.
‘I did tell you on the phone that you would find me different,’ she says, trying to hand him a lifeline.
The man fiddles with his wallet, and Hana feels emotion paralyzing her. But she goes on smiling.
‘I didn’t think you’d be this different,’ O’Connor manages to say. ‘You were … er … pretty vague on the phone.’
‘It wasn’t easy to tell you the whole story on the phone. I couldn’t face it. I apologize.’
O’Connor adjusts the lapels of his jacket for no reason.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to embarrass you.’
‘Anyway, I recognized you right away,’ he quips, trying to rescue them from this awkward moment.
Hana looks past him. The line of customers waiting to pay is getting longer; the cash registers are all working. She hands over the bag holding his books. O’Connor’s eyes are deep blue, his forehead is high. He must be in his fifties. Light-skinned and physically fit.
‘I don’t usually come to this neighborhood,’ he goes on, taking control. Hana is already regretting that she called him. ‘I had a doctor’s appointment nearby and had some time to spare, so here I am.’
‘I don’t know why I called you, but what’s done is done, right?’ she says, squirming with embarrassment as she realizes her cheeks are burning bright red. She looks again at the customers in line.
‘Before we go on, what am I supposed to call you?’ O’Connor asks. ‘And if I’m not being indiscreet, what time do you get out of here?’
‘Hana. Call me Hana. My last name is the same. My real name has always been Hana Doda.’ She enunciates it clearly, and he nods that he understands. ‘It’s my given name. In northern Albanian it means “moon.”’
‘Ok, Miss Moon,’ O’Connor says, smiling, finally more at ease. ‘I’d like to wait for you, or see you at some other time, if that is to your liking.’
‘Look, you don’t have to do this, you know.’
‘I know I don’t have to. But if you’ll allow me, at this point I’m curious. Dead curious.’
Hana finishes her shift in twenty minutes and he says he’ll wait at the bookstore café. He leaves, with a nod of his head and a smile. He walks with a stride, his shoulders straight, like someone accustomed to hiding their fears. Or maybe he has none, because life has always treated him well. And she has made a giant mistake when she didn’t hang up as soon as she heard him in person on the other end of the line rather than the voice mail she had got the other times she tried. You’ve made this mess, now deal with it, she says to herself, calling the next customer in line to come and pay.
Half an hour later, when she sits in front of him, he smiles at her. He’s had time to think about this unexpected meeting, she thinks. He’s also had time to finish an espresso and flip through the newspaper. He crosses his arms and leans back on his chair. Hana experiments with a smile, shrugging her shoulders, and tries to hold his gaze. He’s in no hurry to start the conversation.
Before coming over and sitting down, Hana has spent a little time in the ladies’ room. She powdered her cheeks lightly. No bags under her eyes; last night she slept well. Lucky she decided to wear the jeans that fit her properly. Being androgynous has its advantages, she tells herself. She won’t be good-looking whatever she does and, anyway, she’s not here to please him – she lies – she’s here to put herself to the test. She’s still lying. She would like to make a dazzling impression. She would like to look enigmatic and translucent and deep and unusual and rare. She’s just tiny, plain and cheaply dressed, with a guy who is clearly sophisticated sitting opposite her.
‘Listen,’ she says, beginning the conversation herself since there seemed to be no alternative. ‘Go easy on me, and stop staring at me like that.’
He goes on stripping off her skin with his eyes, layer after layer. Only now he’s doing it more delicately, trying not to look over-curious.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s just I don’t really know how I’m supposed to behave.’
‘It’s not easy for me either.’
‘Right then, shall we make things a bit easier for ourselves?’
‘Ok,’ she decides. ‘Me first, since I’m the one who dragged you into this situation. I’m a woman. I’ve always been one. I’m not a transvestite, or a transsexual, and I’m not gay. I’ve never been any of these things. It’s just that I swore to become a man, in a social sense, sixteen years ago. I had to do it because my circumstances forced me to. The Kanun, the collected laws and traditions of northern Albania, allows a woman to become a man and give up her female role forever if she wants to, or if the head of the family orders her to. So I’m what they call a “sworn virgin.” You’ve researched the Balkans and Albania – you must have heard about them. That’s it. That’s my story, more or less. Now can I order a coffee?’
O’Connor leaps to his feet but Hana beats him to it and makes him sit down again. She stands in line for her coffee and tries to breathe normally. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him settle down and stare out of the window.
Hana returns with her steaming double espresso and sets the cup carefully on the table. She looks up and meets O’Connor’s stare.
‘When we met I felt there was something strange about you,’ he starts. ‘Your face was ambiguous, your voice was ambiguous, and your suit looked odd on you. But I couldn’t go out on a limb and ask anything too personal, could I?’
She sips her coffee, head down.
‘Anyway, at the time I knew nothing about the Kanun and northern Albania in general. It was the first time I’d set foot in the country, remember? Then I did a bit of research, I read a few things about it. I waited for you to call. I wanted to know how you had settled here in the US, but you never got in touch. I went back to Albania a few months ago. A couple of journalists in Tirana helped me try to find you, but …’
Hana smiles. She has finished her coffee and has nothing left to hide behind.
O’Connor is good-looking and relaxed, just as she remembers him. An oddball who’s interested in strange countries like the Balkan states. This thought is a blow to her self-esteem. She called the wrong guy, she tells herself, panic rising.
‘I’m really ashamed I called you,’ she says, sincerely. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’m a nobody to you.’
He lifts his hand.
‘Tell me more, come on, and call me by my name. If I didn’t want you to get in touch I wouldn’t have given you my card. Let’s just get the preliminaries and apologies over and done with, shall we? It’s just ballast, right?’
‘I’ve been thinking of calling you for months, but I was too scared,’ Hana admits.
He smiles.
‘We’re just having a conversation here: your English is great and I’m all ears. What else do you need to help you relax?’
The bookstore café is beginning to empty and the bartenders at the coffee machine are no longer calling out orders.
‘What if we get out of here?’ O’Connor proposes. ‘We could meet for dinner somewhere. You tell me where we can meet and—’
‘I’ve made a mess,’ Hana says. ‘I wanted to see if someone who isn’t Albanian can understand my story, but now I’m—’
‘Regretting it,’ O’Connor says, completing her sentence and laughing.
‘Yes, regretting it.’
‘Well, you did the right thing to call me,’ he says, still trying to reassure her. ‘But if you don’t feel up to it … I won’t insist. It’s weird for me too. Things like this don’t happen every day.’
They leave the café and the bookstore. Hana tells him that she came by bus that morning because her car is at the garage for an oil change. O’Connor offers her a lift, which she accepts so as not to be rude.
‘My apartment is very modest and I don’t feel comfortable letting you see it,’ she hurries to add.
O’Connor assures her he has no intention of making her feel uncomfortable, and laughs again, shaking his head incredulously.
They climb into his Chrysler 300M and drive in silence until they get to Halpine, where Hana tells him to take a right.
‘Right,’ she says, trying to sound confident. ‘I’ll take a shower, put on the most elegant clothes I own and we’ll go out to dinner. Is eight o’clock all right for you?’
The restaurant they have chosen is unpretentious and cozy. Sitting opposite him, she grins sheepishly and asks him to choose for her. O’Connor orders two prime ribs, jacket potatoes with sour cream, and green salad.
She stares out of the window. It’s a beautiful May evening and there is blossom on the trees. She doesn’t deserve this, she thinks. She doesn’t know how to reconcile O’Connor, the grief she feels within her and can’t expiate, and this incredible view.
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ she opens.
For the first time, the thought flicks through her mind that maybe with Jack it would have been easier. She would have told him the story little by little, as if he were a kid in elementary school, and Jack would have said, ‘No way!’ He would have said he couldn’t believe such a weird story. He would have said, ‘Cool!’ He would have said, ‘You don’t say?’ But she never had the guts to tell Jack anything, maybe because he already has enough problems of his own, and he’s black and their worlds seem so far apart. Hana always felt her past would be too difficult for him to grasp. But she still feels guilty every time she thinks about Jack, and every time she runs into him.
Patrick O’Connor smiles, a little impatiently. Hana starts telling him about Gjergj, Katrina, her parents. She tells him again what a sworn virgin is, and goes through the various reasons why a woman might decide to become a man and give up any chance of life with a partner. As she finishes she flashes a smile at O’Connor, and tries to look as if what she has said is the most natural thing in the world.
The waiter, too chatty and obsequious for her taste, cracks a few stupid jokes as he brings their food to the table.
Now it’s O’Connor’s turn to be lost in thought. He cuts his meat slowly, mumbling ‘Enjoy your meal’ without looking at her. They eat in silence. She leaves half her ribs on her plate, and hardly touches her jacket potato. He finishes everything with evident pleasure.
‘The fact that you’re a woman who became a man … ’ O’Connor starts, setting his knife and fork straight on his plate. Hana puts her napkin down, then picks it up again and puts it on her lap. ‘It’s striking … Of course I’m curious, there’s no doubt about that … and you know it too, right? Or you wouldn’t have called me. A “sworn virgin.” It’s fascinating, yes.’
She tries to smile naturally, but doesn’t feel she’s succeeding. God, Americans are so direct, she thinks. She likes this quality but at the same time finds it hard to deal with.
‘Well, here I am, a living example, maybe the only one who has ever left the country. The others are all in Albania.’
She concentrates her attention on Patrick’s hands. They’re tanned. She asks him if he does any sport. He tells her about a little sailboat he shares with a friend and keeps in Chesapeake Bay.
She thinks that if she can make it to the end of this dinner without committing any major faux pas it’ll be a miracle. O’Connor starts telling her a little more about himself. He lives alone. He makes a living as a freelance journalist for three print newspapers. He owns an apartment on Massachusetts Avenue. His ex-wife lives in Geneva and they are on good terms. No kids. No sentimental attachments since quite a while back. Has a hard time maintaining relationships owing to his job, which takes him around the world. A classic example of emotional failure, if that helps Hana feel more at ease.
She smiles shyly. She can see that his emotions are also playing tricks on him, and she’s relieved. They start on the wine, which they had completely forgotten about.
‘I thought you were gay, back when we were on the plane,’ O’Connor confesses. ‘Thanks for placing your trust in me.’
Hana sips her wine cautiously.
‘Seriously, thanks. I must get hold of the Kanun and read it.’
Silence.
‘You can read my story if you want,’ Hana says.
O’Connor loosens his tie.
‘In the years I lived as a man I kept a diary. I’ve rewritten it here in my terrible English and my niece has corrected it – well, partly corrected it – so people can understand it.’
‘Did you write any more poems?’
‘I’ve been too busy taking care of myself,’ she answers warily.
He lifts his arms, cocks his head to one side and smiles candidly.
‘It’s weird,’ he says. ‘I was sure I’d met people with the most tragic and unique stories. I have always traveled to their countries to seek them out: Nicaragua, Argentina, Lebanon, Pakistan, Bosnia. Yet now I’m here with you and I’ve just heard the most incredible story. You go around the world digging out stories and the real gem is sitting there right next to you. No cliché has ever been more true.’
He stops and thinks for a moment, then asks Hana about her family in Rockville. She tells him about Lila, Shtjefën, and especially about Jonida. She describes them in minute detail, and she tells him about how scared she is now that she has to manage her everyday life on her own after the months she spent at their house. A mountain girl like me, who’d never even seen a credit card, she tells him; she wasn’t so sure she’d succeed.
She goes back to talk about Jonida, adding more stories. He listens attentively. Or maybe he’s just developed the art of looking interested while his mind wanders over more distant pastures. He is a journalist, after all, Hana thinks.
‘I’m talking too much, sorry.’
He takes her hand, as if to reassure her, and tightens his grip momentarily.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m still bowled over.’
He suggests going out for a short walk. Hana is embarrassed to say no. She’s not used to this kind of thing, and it would be really nice to be taken home, she’s pretty tired.
O’Connor gestures for the bill and then turns towards Hana, looking at her softly.
‘I always take one step at a time,’ Hana says. ‘I don’t know if you understand.’
‘I’ll take you home. But don’t say we won’t see one another again. I have a list of questions this long to ask you.’
‘Slowly does it,’ she says. ‘I need time. Anyway, I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t expect any friendship. This meeting might be enough for me.’
‘If we can’t get away from this idea of obligation,’ Patrick says, ‘then we may as well forget the whole thing. All I’m offering is my pleasure in seeing you again, and understanding your story. It’s up to you.’
On their way back to Hana’s house, she stares out of the car window, wondering where she should put her hands, still resting in her lap for now. She lifts them and crosses her arms. That’s better; she feels more in control. O’Connor is on Route 270, and politely waiting for her to speak first. But Hana feels more comfortable with silence. The evening is still glorious. Every building looks elegantly somber, the outlines of the trees in formation like guards on duty.
It’s nice to be back in her studio apartment. Rockville is more than home. It’s the perfect refuge for her quiet bewilderment.
Everyone is alone at the heart of the earth … 12 Her and the trees and the asphalt desecrated by the cars taking solitude out for a ride.
When he stops the car, he shakes her hand. Like a year and a half ago, as if he were saying goodbye to a man not a woman. She feels it. What is this? Are you flirting with him? she asks herself critically, as she goes up the stairs.
She can’t sleep that night. She listens to the silence, staring at the ceiling. At around three in the morning she gets up and goes over to Nick, the computer, waiting on standby. She furiously types a page of disconnected thoughts and the process of writing arouses her. She feels she wants to touch herself, and she does so without any sense of shame. She plays with herself but she can’t reach the peak of pleasure she feels is there waiting, and so she stops, tired out. She readjusts her summer pajamas. She apologizes to herself, turns Nick off, and goes back to bed, waiting for sleep that refuses to embrace her.
The next day, before going to the bookstore, she scribbles through the words ‘Call O’Connor!’ on the note in the kitchen, leaving only the exclamation mark, and goes out, whistling.
A few days later, Jonida is over at her place for the weekend. Hana gives her the lowdown on her dinner with O’Connor. Her niece is wearing pink pajamas from Victoria’s Secret, with ‘HOT’ embroidered over her behind. The chest-hugging top is bright orange, with pink lace on the shoulder straps. Jonida’s hair is bunched into two braids like Pippi Longstocking.
They’ve just finished eating. Hana made an Indian dish, basmati rice with eggplant, which she’s very proud of. She’s trying out recipes from around the world, with occasionally disastrous results. Jonida stares hard at her.
‘Go on, tell me more. That can’t be it. At least I hope it’s not,’ she pleads.
‘Of course that’s it. What else d’you want me to say?’ Hana teases.
‘You didn’t tell me you were going to call him, though.’
‘Yeah, right. You think I was going to say: “I have to call Patrick O’Connor”?’
‘We promised we wouldn’t hide anything from each other,’ her niece objects. ‘And now you’re behaving just like Mom.’
‘And how would that be?’
‘She decides which promises she wants to keep.’
Hana clears away the plate of rice and gives Jonida a salad plate. She serves both of them. They’ve seen less of one another recently. Jonida is really busy at school, studying with ferocious determination and a genuine ambition to make something of her life.
For weeks at a time she is absent from the world of the three adults in her family. Lila is really upset about it. Shtjefën manages to stay close by playing basketball with her occasionally. They go out and shoot a few hoops and come back home arguing furiously. Her father says she fouls all the time and Jonida counters by saying her father’s so short of breath he can’t keep up with her anymore. She’s strangely sure of herself for a teenager. She’s unusual in that she’s pragmatic and sensitive at the same time.
Hana watches her devour the salad. Once, she asked Lila how Jonida would have turned out if she’d grown up in the mountains back home. Lila answered straight off that her daughter would have got herself into deep trouble. She would never have accepted the rigid mentality and suffocating social control of the clan, and no way would she have accepted having to submit to a man. ‘She’s like you, Hana,’ her cousin concluded.
Everyone comes to a conclusion. At the end of every sentence, there is a period. Nobody openly expresses perplexity or doubt. This is a typically American quality, she thinks. Hana doesn’t like the idolatry of the winner, of the over-confident. Jack felt the same, though he worked his butt off trying to climb the social ladder, and always considered himself a failure.
Jack had recently found a new girlfriend. She was cute and quiet, from St Kitts, where his numerous family also came from.
‘This is the honeymoon period, baby, then she’ll probably leave me,’ he would say to Hana, over and over. ‘I’ve had plenty of experience of women changing their mind and leaving.’
Jack used to call her ‘honey,’ ‘friend,’ ‘cutie.’ He knew Hana spent her time writing.
‘You want stories to write?’ he asked her one day. They were at her house, a plate of spaghetti with meat sauce in front of them. ‘I’ll tell you the story of my family and you’ll have plenty to write about.’
Hana answered that she had enough stories inside her to last two lives, not one. He disagreed and said she may have some harsh experiences to write about but they were nothing compared to those of the African Americans.
‘So, my stories are about whites,’ Hana argued, growing more irritated. ‘Why is that supposed to matter?’
‘It’s just not the same thing, and it can’t be more dramatic.’
‘Jack, is this a competition about who has suffered the most now?’
‘You can put it that way if you want.’
He had had a little to drink before getting to her apartment. He was drinking as he was speaking. He was particularly sad that day and Hana didn’t dare ask why.
‘Go tell your story to someone who can write, then,’ she said, trying to bring the discussion to a close. ‘I sell books and I read them. I don’t write them.’
Jack reminded her that the fairytale Hana had invented for his daughter Taneea’s birthday was beautiful.
‘Why don’t you want to hear my story, Hana?’ he insisted.
‘When I’m ready I’ll tell you why.’
‘Why are you so nervous today?’
‘I don’t know.’
But she did know. The fact was that Jack was generous and she wasn’t. If Hana never got to know Jack’s family’s secrets, it would be easier for her never to let her demons out.
‘You’re some tough nut, you know,’ Jack grumbled, as he went out onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette. After a while they called a truce.
‘When are you bringing Gabrielle over to dinner? I’d like you to meet Lila and Shtjefën,’ Hana said. ‘We can do something more useful than telling each other our sob stories.’
Jack looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time.
‘Try understanding the first thing about you, cutie.’
Gabrielle, who was a professional nurse, would be able to encourage Lila to enroll in the nursing school. Her cousin was scared of making a wrong move. After speaking with Shtjefën, Hana wanted to help Lila make a decision, but she wanted to do it so discreetly that Lila wouldn’t even notice.
‘You’re one big egotist, Hana Doda,’ Jack had said. ‘But I love you anyway.’
Jonida gets up from the table. She’s finished her salad and she stares at Hana impatiently.
‘If you go on just sitting there without saying anything, I’m out of here.’
‘Sorry, I was somewhere else for a minute.’
Jonida pulls a face. Hana gets up too and thrusts her hands in her pockets.
‘You’re a nightmare,’ she protests, laughing. ‘You’re always threatening me.’
‘But it works, right? You were thinking about O’Connor, weren’t you? Come on, tell me the truth.’ Jonida takes a bottle of mineral water from the fridge.
‘No, I wasn’t. I was thinking about your mom being scared to go to nursing school, and about Jack. I swear. I wasn’t thinking about Patrick.’
‘Why? What’s the big deal if you were thinking about him?’
‘There’s no big deal, but there’s not much to think about either. He’s just a journalist who’s interested in the Balkans and who wanted to understand things, that’s all.’
Jonida looks at her. She pauses to think, and a shadow of sadness crosses her face.
‘A friend of mine’s mom died yesterday,’ she says, changing the subject. ‘A heart attack. She’d never had any problems. She was, like, forty. She was really nice. I met her a few times at basketball games. She was a bit like Mom, you know. They’re Italians, from Catania? Giovanni, my friend, he’s going over there now to bury his mom.’
Hana mumbles something like ‘I’m sorry,’ which Jonida doesn’t even hear.
‘Well, I said to Mom and Dad, if there’s one thing you must never do to me, it’s die. Never never never.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘And you too,’ Jonida says, interrupting her. ‘It’s the same for you. Don’t try playing some kind of fucked-up joke on me for at least a hundred years, do you hear me? I want you all here with me.’
‘Jonida, love …’
‘You’re just not allowed, ok?’
She gets up, turns her back to Hana and starts washing the dishes.
Patrick O’Connor gets in touch in the first week of June. He gets right to the point and asks whether she’d like to meet him somewhere.
‘I waited for you to call, as we agreed, but since you didn’t, I decided to go against my word,’ he says.
Hana is frying qofte and the pan is sizzling happily. The call makes her so nervous she turns the hot plate off and starts striding back and forth. She yearns for a cigarette; there’s a pack she has kept hidden away – who knows why – in the bureau drawer. She lights one and takes a deep drag, feeling immediately giddy.
‘Hana, are you still there?’ Patrick says.
‘You decided to waste your time on me?’ Hana asks ironically, looking at herself in the mirror.
‘So, when shall we meet?’
Hana opens her mouth wide in mute celebration, then she clears her voice.
‘I’d prefer not to go to a restaurant this time,’ she says, choosing her words carefully. ‘You end up paying the bill and I can’t even play the role of saying we can split it. It wouldn’t be honest, because my finances are very—’
‘I can add up,’ O’Connor interrupts. ‘I’ve lived in the US all my life. So, what do you suggest?’
‘I don’t want to come over to your place either.’
She moves out of the corridor to avoid the reflection of the mirror, which is making her nervous.
‘It looks like there’s nowhere in the world where we can meet and have a chat,’ he jokes.
‘If it’s no big deal for you, why don’t you come over to my place?’ Hana says, surprising herself and immediately regretting her words.
O’Connor says he doesn’t want to make things difficult for her. He’d like to see her but if every time it turns into a drama …
‘So, would you come round here tonight?’ She feels protected in her little apartment. ‘I’ve made enough food for an army. I don’t know why, I got the amounts wrong. Are you used to weird food?’
Whatever questions O’Connor decides to ask her, in her home she feels she can answer them.
Hana takes a shower and tries not to wet her hair. The day before, she went to the hairdresser and had her hair shaped around her small, well-formed ears. She puts on a push-up bra. She dresses in white, pants and a linen shirt. She looks good and she knows it.
Whatever happens that evening, as long as it doesn’t turn into a vale of tears, she’ll be ok, she thinks, as she prepares herself.
O’Connor is wearing a musky, powerful aftershave that lowers her defenses right away. He hands her a beautiful bunch of flowers and kisses her lightly on the cheeks. Hana has the impression that something is moving too fast, but he’s just friendly, thoughtful, and a little cautious. He takes a seat, smiling at her. There’s a long embarrassing pause. Then he confesses that he has read a lot about Albania in the past few weeks. He has read everything he could get his hands on. He even found the Kanun.
Hana doesn’t know what to do about the dinner that is ready. Patrick shrugs his shoulders.
‘I won’t ask any questions if you don’t want me to.’
Why is he sitting there? Why him?
‘Why are you here, Patrick?’ she asks suddenly, looking at the floor. ‘It’s all so unbalanced, the way I met you, my constant state of tension … ’ She stops as suddenly as she started and doesn’t know how to continue.
For a while now she’s been unable to balance her thoughts out, and that makes her angry. It’s weird but when she was Mark she was better with words. Mark weighed them out inside himself, observed and honed them, stroked them, at times erased them from his mind. As a man, silence was his ally. In silence there was hope; in conversations there often wasn’t. Sound played for the enemy side. Once feelings were expressed, they lost their beauty, lost their color, and became diaphanous. The idea of beauty seems beyond her grasp now. Mark, Hana thinks, is the one who’s kept his hold on beauty. In her haste to become the woman ‘Hana,’ she is losing something she can’t quite put her finger on. Patrick’s patience is also running out, she realizes.
‘So, Hana?’ he urges her on. ‘Explain yourself better: what do you mean by what you were saying?’
She takes courage and looks up. She asks him brusquely why he wants to get to know her better.
‘That sounds like an accusation,’ he observes.
‘Yes, I’m a bit defensive.’
‘You’re not very trusting.’
‘Sorry.’
Patrick changes tack.
‘I’m hungry, Hana. Did you forget you’d invited me to dinner? I didn’t ask you to. Maybe if you give me some dinner, I’ll feel better and then you can mistreat me as much as you like.’
She laughs. First point to him. She explains what she’s about to bring to the table and Patrick says he’d eat a piece of rock served on a salad leaf. He has had a bad day and skipped lunch. The tension eases slowly. Hana serves her dishes on cream-colored plates. The tablecloth is green linen and looks good with the crockery.
She asked the guy in the liquor store to advise her about wines. He suggested a Californian Cabernet. She knows nothing about wine.
After a toast they eat in silence. Her guest wolfs down the qofte and vegetables, while Hana sips her wine. It’s just so nice to have him there, sitting opposite her. She now feels strangely calm, and her movements become more harmonious and less spasmodic.
‘I hardly dare say it’s delicious because you’ll surely say I’m only being polite,’ Patrick teases. ‘Can I have some more?’
He knows what he’s doing, she thinks, serving him seconds. She feels her head spin. She closes her eyes. She’s trying her utmost to keep her self-control, but she’s not doing very well, so she may as well let go altogether. She drinks her wine in great gulps. She pushes her plate away and listens to O’Connor talk about his last two weeks, and the tragedy of his friend who was just diagnosed with cancer. She runs her hands through her hair, and goes on drinking. Patrick notices. He looks at the bottle and then at Hana’s glass. He has drunk very little.
‘I want you to stay,’ she begs him. ‘Just for tonight. For now,’ she corrects herself. ‘If you don’t have the guts to deal with your shyness, you make a fool of yourself by drinking. And I’ve drunk quite a lot.’
He’s about to say she’s not making a fool of herself, but stops.
‘Looking you up was a mistake, Patrick. I have no right to drag you into my mess, and now I’m panicking.’
He doesn’t say a word.
Hana gets up and sways towards the bureau. She notices he’s not looking at her, so as not to embarrass her. She lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. She turns around and offers her guest the pack. If she takes no notice of his disappointed expression, there may be some hope of recovering at least some of her dignity.
‘I shouldn’t have drunk anything,’ she murmurs, sitting back down. ‘I used to drink a lot. It was part of being a man, but you wouldn’t understand that.’
‘Yeah, right. I wouldn’t understand because I’m American? Because I’m a man? Explain yourself. I might understand if you tried a bit harder.’
‘It’s too much for me. It would be too much for you.’
‘Stop it. I’m fifty years old and I’ve been around a good while. You’re not dragging me anywhere, I already told you.’
‘Is it curiosity then? Is it that you feel you found a rare insect for your collection?’ Hana stops, but it’s too late.
She hears the sound of the train as it passes her house, metal screeching on metal, carriage after carriage. I’ve ruined everything, she thinks. Good thing too.
‘I’m sorry, Patrick. I really am.’
‘God, you really like saying sorry, don’t you?’
‘Are we having a fight?’
Hana feels shame riding up her throat. She bursts into tears and drops her head on the table. O’Connor doesn’t move from his seat. It’s like he isn’t even there.
When she manages to calm down, she can hardly get up. She goes into the bathroom and rinses her face, then buries her face in the towel and rubs until it hurts. She drags herself into the bedroom and picks up a big folder full of papers.
She goes back into the sitting room and gives the whole wad to O’Connor.
‘I owe you this at least,’ she says, without looking at him. ‘This is my story. When you’ve read it, you don’t need to give it back to me in person. You can mail it. That way I can make up for putting you in this embarrassing situation.’
In the weeks that follow Hana throws herself into her work at the bookstore with fierce determination. Lila gets the message that it’s best to give her space. Jonida is coming up to the end of her junior year at high school and has so many tests she has no time to come over.
Hana spends her evenings zapping aimlessly from one TV channel to another. She can’t read, and she doesn’t feel like her usual evening walks. In her overriding concern not to think about anything, one wish drills through her consciousness and hammers at her brain: that O’Connor mustn’t get in touch. If he vanishes off the face of this earth, she’ll be safe.
At the end of June, however, Hana receives a letter from Patrick, saying he’s read her story. The whole thing, over and over, every detail. He won’t be able to return her manuscript, though, until he gets back from a trip to the Baltics, where he’s planning to stay for three weeks. He doesn’t plan to send it back by mail. It’s clear, he writes, that their relationship isn’t going to take a normal course, but he needs and wants to give her the book back in person.
It’s not a book, Hana thinks. It’s just my life. It’s just a life; books are different.
‘I hope to see you when I get back,’ he writes, ‘and if this letter irritates you, deal with it.’
Hana gets up, puts the letter on the table, and goes out onto the balcony. Kids are playing in the square below, skipping or throwing balls, most speaking Spanish, others calling out in languages from around the world. Two young black mothers, holding newborn babies, keep an eye on their older kids, but Hana can’t see who belongs to whom.
A month later, when they finally meet, Hana wears no makeup, although the week before she had highlights put in her hair.
They agreed on a stroll along the Potomac without too much haggling and, as they take the well-trodden path, Patrick tells her about his trip. Rowboats and kayaks slip along the river beside them. Having returned only the day before, Patrick is still jet-lagged, yet the conversation flows smoothly. Eight weeks have passed since their last, disastrous meeting. The neutrality of their surroundings clears the air.
Then Patrick abruptly changes tack, asking about Albania, the mountains, women’s rights under the Kanun, and the dictatorship. She answers diligently, leaving nothing out.
They stop and sit on a bench, enjoying the river view and watching the Washingtonians thronging the park.
‘Why did you do it, Hana?’ Patrick asks, after a long silence. ‘You never say why, in any of your diaries. From what I understood, your uncle would never have made you marry against your will. What you write about him doesn’t explain why you took such a drastic decision.’
She looks him straight in the eye and answers honestly, not worrying about sounding melodramatic. Her gesture, she says, honored Gjergj Doda, and gave him a few more months of life and dignity. If he had forced her to marry, he would have known he had done something she hated and he would have died a sad man. And if she had disobeyed him, Gjergj Doda would have lost face. The mountains couldn’t allow it. When Hana became a man, Gjergj died brimming with pride.
It was a gesture of love; perhaps it was also a delusion, Hana concedes, smiling and shaking her head. To start with she felt like a character in a play, like the heroine – no, the hero – of a popular novel. Then the feeling wore off, she admits, but by then it was too late, of course. Anyway, what was the point of regretting things up there in the cursed mountains?
She looks over at two squirrels fighting over an acorn. Patrick absorbs her words slowly. Then he takes her hand and shifts his body instinctively closer to her. She rests her head on his shoulder.
‘Welcome to my life, Hana,’ he murmurs. ‘Whatever direction our friendship takes, you’re in my life, and you are most welcome.’
Without another word, Patrick takes her home. In the car she stares ahead and says nothing. At her door, he kisses her forehead and leaves.
Hana stands completely still. She looks within herself, and is filled with nostalgia and happiness. She is rediscovering the Hana that used to be, the Hana who sat beside Gjergj Doda in his last hours, the Hana she has spent all these years trying to suffocate and forget.
She held the dying man’s hand for four whole days.
‘He’s on his way out. He’s more dead than alive, can’t you see?’ a doctor from the nearest town had said. ‘Let him go. If you allow him to, he’ll pass away this evening.’
Gjergj resisted for four more days, gripping Hana’s hand desperately. It was his hand that held on, not him. He would have let go sooner, but his hand wouldn’t allow it.
When his grip loosened and his fingers went cold, she understood it was time to think about the funeral. She didn’t look at his face. She got up and went to the bathroom. Her bladder had been killing her for the last three hours, but she hadn’t dared take her hand away.
She squatted over the toilet and finally let go, staring at the wall in front of her. In the corner there was an ancient patch of mold; as a child she used to see the shapes of animals and people in it, as if it were a cloud.
She checked all the rooms in the kulla to see that everything was in order. Then she went back to her uncle’s deathbed. Now she looked at him. She kissed him on the forehead. His eyes were closed, but he still did not have the color of death. Soon his skin would start to grow darker, she had heard.
You’re free now, Hana, she told herself. You’re done for.
It was five in the morning. Mark took the rifle off the wall and stepped out of the hut. He fired a few shots in the air to announce the death to the village.
In the days that follow, Hana can’t stop thinking about the walk with Patrick along the Potomac. She has succeeded in having an almost normal conversation with a man, and the awe he inspired in her now feels like a fledgling sense of self-confidence.
After all, she’s lived in the US now for a good year and a half, and she has made it. She hasn’t had, and still doesn’t have, the ability or the ambition to understand herself. That’s another matter altogether. Putting together all the pieces of her puzzle: this was and is her project. While she eats her solitary dinners, she thinks with a certain pride of how far this project has taken her.
She had the balls to do it. They still hurt from the effort. She smiles at the paradox. She’s made it on her own. That’s all that counts. The rest, the world, can wait. She is Hana, the Hana of her stories and of the skirts that sit badly on her hips. The world outside can wait. Take your time, please.
She feels replete, a little dizzy without drinking a drop, crazy and wise. She sings out loud and strides around the apartment like a general.
‘Get a grip,’ she admonishes herself. ‘And cut all this pride crap. Take it easy.’
She observes herself from the outside severely. ‘Be normal, for God’s sake.’
Nine days later, Patrick calls again. They decide to meet that evening. It is Monday. She has the morning shift at the bookstore so she has all the time in the world to get ready. She wants to be relaxed and in control of herself. She wants him to notice a change in her.
Even a relationship as weird as this one has its purpose, she tries to convince herself. The fact that she sought him out or that he wanted to listen wasn’t such a prodigiously big thing after all. People continue to tell stories, thank God. And thank God some people continue to trust others and sometimes that trust is not betrayed. Hana steels herself: whatever Patrick has in mind for that evening, she is ready. Her newfound serenity will not be lost.
Now is the time to tell Lila why she’s been lying low for the past few weeks. When Lila hears her voice she’s overjoyed.
‘I thought you had left town. I’ve missed you so much, I have a million things to tell you. I would have come over this evening anyway, I couldn’t wait any longer.’
Hana tells her cousin she won’t be home this evening so she had better tell her now. Lila talks as if a dam has opened. At the hospital where she has a cleaning job they said they could help her. They offered to fund part of her nursing course – only if she makes all her grades, of course.
‘I have to fill in a pile of paperwork,’ she says breathlessly.
Hana congratulates her. ‘I told you you’d find a way.’
‘The Human Resources manager says I have good potential,’ Lila yells down the phone. ‘Are you sure we can’t meet this evening? What do you have on that’s so important?’
Hana confesses she’s going out to dinner with a man. Lila is struck dumb.
‘What? A man?’
‘I’m not going out with a monkey, if that’s what you mean,’ Hana answers, laughing. The floodgates open again and Lila gives her the third degree. To save time and effort, Hana feeds her the name Patrick.
‘The guy with the business card? The journalist?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘When did you see him?’
‘A few weeks ago.’
‘A few – how many?’
‘A couple of months ago.’
‘You are evil, Hana Doda, you are a real …’
Hana hangs up on her before Lila goes into paroxysms.
Patrick hugs her tenderly and sensitively. He puts her hands together and holds them tight. He knows what he’s doing; he wants to find the right way to handle her.
He says he’d just like to see her every now and then. Without stress. He’d like to spend time with her, as much as she wants. It’s simple. To be friends without worrying whether there’s anything unbalanced in the relationship.
She stares at him as he speaks without saying a word.
‘So?’ he laughs. ‘You’re not going to take weeks to answer, are you? I just want to clear up a few things. I’m not looking to have some kind of outlandish affair because that’s not what you need.’
Hana has trouble mustering an appropriate response. She’s panicking again, and she confesses as much. His response is perfectly sensible and that’s why, in the days to come, she is sure she’ll be wondering where the hitch is. She’s not used to this. She doesn’t believe in the perfect man. Not even in novels.
‘How many women in the world … ’ She leaves the sentence incomplete. Then she goes on, almost bitterly: ‘There must be something wrong with you. You can’t be perfect. Your perfection scares me – and it’s irritating too.’
Patrick laughs. And the drop in tension helps her.
‘Hana,’ he says. ‘I’m not desperate and I’m not trying to trick you into anything! Don’t worry, I have plenty of defects. Perfect? Me?’
She tells him she’s scared. Before he arrived, and in the last few days, she was calm. Now she’s feeling nervous, so it’s better if she doesn’t say anything else, or she’ll just talk garbage. He looks at her incredulously, but still with a twinkle of fun.
‘Tell me the truth,’ she pleads. ‘You’re regretting this now, right? I can see it. It’s not a matter of regretting things, or being convinced about what we’re doing. I just know this isn’t going to work. Pretending to be something I’m not, deceiving each other. It’s no good. It can’t work.’
Patrick gets up slowly and looks away. She follows closely behind. At the door she feels a sudden desire to curl up right inside him, but she doesn’t let him read her thoughts. She lets him kiss her forehead while she kisses him all over in her mind.
‘I’m sorry, Patrick. I’ve messed up again.’
He’s already out of the door, shaking his head without a glance back at her. He gestures goodbye and runs down the stairs. He has left his bunch of flowers in the apartment.
You’re fucked, Hana tells herself. You’ll never learn. You’re totally in the shit, ruined for life. All he did was ask you to be his friend and you acted like he was proposing till death do us part. God, you’re such an idiot. Worse than last time getting drunk and all that. What the hell do you want from him?
The question is loaded, and she decides to give herself a break that evening, because she knows damn well what the answer is, and it fills her with embarrassment.
She dials Lila’s number again. If she spends another minute thinking on her own she’ll lose it, there and then.
‘Lila, I like him too much.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I sent him away. I messed up.’
‘You’re crazy! Weren’t you two going out to dinner? Why did you do that?’
‘Because everything he says makes too much sense. Come over. I need you here.’
Two months later Hana gathers her courage and calls Patrick on his cell phone. It’s the beginning of September and it’s still warm.
She needs to apologize to him, she tells herself, and be forgiven. She suggests going out to a quiet restaurant in Georgetown on the canal, if he wants and if he has time.
After saying sorry to a passerby for bumping into him, Patrick says he accepts her apologies, but is still doubtful about the rest. ‘What do we have to say to one another?’
She waits for more. He doesn’t provide it.
It feels like a slap and it hurts. She swallows the pain.
‘Patrick?’
‘Yes?’
‘Please.’
Silence.
‘This evening I happen to be free. I hope that is ok with you because tomorrow I’m going out of town and I’ll be away for a good while.’
She thanks him and hopes her voice does not betray how relieved she is. She tells him she’ll pick him up in her ridiculous car; that way there’ll be nothing else to know about her. He’ll have seen everything.
‘I wish!’ he exclaims. ‘Ok, see you this evening.’ Hana imagines his smile, sees it cracking his face with expectant amusement.
‘And I’m paying,’ she adds.
‘Have you finished laying down conditions?’
The restaurant Hana has imagined for months that she would choose is perfect. They decide to sit outside on the patio rather than inside with the air conditioning. Soothing Celtic music plays in the background.
They order scallops, which are served in a thick white sauce.
Hana launches right into her apologies.
‘I’m sorry for every time I’ve put you out with a question; I’m sorry about my reservations; I’m sorry about my doubts.’
O’Connor doesn’t answer. He’s tanned, she notices. He must have been out sailing.
Another couple sits at the table near them. Patrick looks at Hana tenderly.
‘All we do is explain, reflect, argue. How about we try lightening up a little? How about changing the subject for once?’
Hana explains she’s the opposite of the kind of woman Patrick must like.
‘And what kind of woman would that be?’
‘Gorgeous, well-educated, chic, poised.’
He doesn’t give an inch. Hana decides to start eating her food. She thanks the defenseless bivalve drowning in the béchamel. It’s delicious.
Hana knows how to be silent. She knows how not to die. She knows how to love. She knows how to write. But she doesn’t know how to make love. And she doesn’t know how to hate. Now she knows all these things about herself. She also knows things can’t go on as they are. She says all this to Patrick with unusual calm.
‘There are some things,’ she says, ‘you and I can’t talk about and … ’ she stops.
‘You’re forgetting I learned your story by rote,’ he says, reassuring her. ‘It’s all written in your diaries.’
Patrick rests his chin on both hands.
‘So let’s go make love,’ he says, as naturally as ever. ‘Let’s finish these damn scallops. You pay the bill, since you’re so concerned about it. Nobody is stopping you. And we’ll get out of here. Nobody is stopping us. Don’t panic. I’m not asking you to marry me, to have kids, to commit yourself for eternity. Friends give each other a hand. So let’s try making love, if you feel like it. Start with that and then see what happens with your life.’
Hana has gone red. She tries smiling at Patrick and succeeds, without feeling awkward.
‘Normally friends don’t go to bed, right?’ she quips, scared to mess up again.
‘Nothing is normal between us, so what’s the problem?’ he says, coming to her aid. ‘Let’s go, Hana. We’re not having this tug of war just out of friendship. There’s more to it. Shall we try and find out what there is? You decide. Are we going to talk about it all night, or shall we go? It’s been a while since I last made love too, if you really want to know.’
‘How come?’
Patrick doesn’t answer. Before getting up he silently swills down the last of the wine in his glass.
‘The bathroom is at the end on the left if you need it.’
Hana goes into the enormous room. She doesn’t look around, she goes straight to the mirror. She sees herself reflected dressed in red, in a tight knitted skirt. She steps out without even rinsing her face, which is burning. Then she goes into the sitting room, where Patrick has lit a small table lamp and lots of candles.
He sits her down on the sofa and hugs her. Then he kisses her on her forehead.
Patrick’s hands slowly stroke her nipples, then slide down towards her hips, where they come to rest. Hana takes a while before she lets herself go. He caresses and kisses her, while she tries to figure out whether she likes what he’s doing. She’s terrified of reciprocating his gestures, so she grabs hold of the sheet and feels safer.
‘You’re not drowning,’ he whispers.
He realizes Hana is still not feeling much, so he moves down and gently opens the lips of her vagina with his tongue. He plays with her, teasing her clitoris, doing all those things she’s seen in the films but this time she’s beginning to sense the pleasure, then she feels it take her over. Patrick readjusts his body until the two forms fit together perfectly, and waits until she’s ready before slowly sliding into her.
He carries on kissing her, warm and relaxed, happy even. Sitting up against the bedstead, he pulls her to him and she rests her head on his shoulder.
‘It’s been a year since I last made love.’
‘And I’m free of this thing,’ Hana says, amazed, smelling his skin and wondering what happens now. He hugs her closer.
‘So?’ he jokes. ‘We’re free of this thing together. Are you happy now?’
‘How come you didn’t make love for a year?’
He kisses her on the temple.
‘I’ll tell you another time, ok?’
Silence.
‘But I didn’t reach orgasm …’
‘It’ll happen. Next time we’ll work on it.’
‘It’s not work,’ Hana says, furrowing her brow.
‘No, it’s not. You’re right.’
‘Patrick?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you like it?’
‘I think so; I really think so.’
‘Swear.’
‘God, you talk a lot!’ Patrick laughs, still holding her close, while Hana begins to feel awkward. She tries to free herself.
‘Stay here,’ he whispers. ‘There’s no hurry. There’s absolutely no hurry.’
And he falls asleep.
She only pulls away from his embrace when Patrick’s breathing becomes regular. She dresses and leaves his apartment. She drives home, concentrating fiercely on the road, and smokes the cigarette she has been saving for this after.
The night is deserted and strangely slow. But she is not at all. She feels alert and, as soon as she gets home, she has another smoke. Now she knows she has a life to live, whatever happens from now on. Before day comes, she’ll sleep. Before any fear creeps back. She doesn’t think it will. She hates her fear.
She has felt her body react; she felt it pulse.
‘Welcome back, body,’ she says out loud.
She throws her cigarette butt out of the window.
It’s good to know she’s alive.