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ALEXANDRA ARRIVED IN Tirana under contract with the London Times to not only record the ascension of a new European king, but a Muslim one to boot. Interest in the coronation was high back in “Jolly olde.” The English mulled over the Albanians with a blend of derision and awe—their hearts swept up in the poetry and travel logs of Lord Byron. He had framed a romanticized vision of this restless, enigmatic land. Romanticism notwithstanding, there was but one unpoetic problem: the country had no hotels.
“Do you know where a foreigner might stay in the capital?”
“Anyone will take you in,” the bureau clerk informed. “We are hospitable people.”
How can a country have no hotels...? In Europe...? It’s 1928! Alexandra left the ministry building with her stamped press pass in a continued state of bafflement. Since arrival, she found her surroundings little different from other unprogressive areas of Europe, with one exception—it had no hotels! At least it was a pleasant day to be a nomad in a backward Balkan kingdom. She gazed across the cityscape, which comprised little more than a few minarets, a church steeple, and a clock tower. Along the wide boulevards stood villas, dated structures of Ottoman design, and partially constructed government buildings. Albania had only emerged as an autonomous nation during the First Balkan War of 1912, though its people had inhabited these lands from time immemorial when they were known as the Illyrians. Tirana was designated as its capital in 1925. The master plan to erase the ethos of five centuries of Ottoman rule and embrace the promise of the twentieth century remained in its infancy.
Alexandra set down her suitcase on a bench shaded by a eucalyptus tree. She kicked off her shoes and rubbed her feet. Breaking in new heels was poorly timed. The pistons of her mind were churning hot and over-caffeinated. She’d spent hours consuming Türk kahvesi before hitting up the ministry for its bathroom and to get credentialed. Many foreigners sat in the café speaking languages both alien and familiar to her ear: Romanian royals, Bulgarian diplomats, French sophisticates, and Italian businessmen among them. None of them seemed troubled over where they would rest their head for the evening. She learned via pidgin-English, or pidgin-everything, that some were staying at their nation’s consulates or with compatriots. They suggested she ask anyone on the street for shelter, as the Albanians’ ancient moral code, the Law of Lek, embraced hospitality as a great honor. Most also agreed that there was no better option to wake up with fleas than a Turkish roadside han, of which none they could recommend.
“How can a country have no hotels...? In Europe...? It’s 1928!” Alexandra huffed aloud. It was her second consecutive nation suffering a dearth of electrical outlets. At least in Morocco, she had exploited periodic access to Liam’s penis to aid her diagnosed mental condition... not to mention a bed.
Smoking and drinking to excess only went so far.
Alexandra wondered if she should change into something vampish and seduce a Hungarian count or Montenegrin diplomat to bed down with for the night. Being so preoccupied with her annoyances, she failed to notice a girl sitting on the bench. She was no older than eighteen, dressed in a simple black travel frock, and was clutching a suitcase—a peaceful half-smile to her lips.
Alexandra stopped picking at a bunion. “Want a cigarette?”
The young woman continued to smile, unschooled in English.
Alexandra fired one up and took a calming drag. She belatedly introduced herself. “Unë jam Alexandra.”
The girl placed a hand over her heart. “Agnes. Zoti qoftë me ju.”
While she knew a few phrases of Albanian, Alexandra surmised anything more coming from her lips in this mindset would not sound friendly. She looked away from Agnes. No one would mistake them for sisters. The tiny thing was five feet tall. Her dark hair was tied in a bun and thick eyebrows vanished halfway across her tepid eyes.
The bench was near the parade route. Workers were hanging the national flag off the roofs of every surrounding structure. Alexandra considered it an intriguing banner: a black double-headed eagle on a backdrop of red.
The colors of this “Land of the Eagles.”
“Do të donit pak mollë?”
Alexandra looked at Agnes, who held out a slice of apple. “Does it come with a hotel room?”
The girl’s persistent, calm gaze was grating on her. Since returning from Brazil, Alexandra felt as if something noxious was festering inside of her. Here she sat, brooding at the selfless gesture of a girl reared in a land that had offered her young life little more than a setting for bloodletting. Alexandra knew a newfound millionairess, raised in the spoils of America, should act better, but she didn’t care to.
She placed on her shoes and walked away.
A middle-aged woman, brimming with excitement, ran up to her. “You must be the girl I’m looking for!” The woman thrust out her hand. “Helen Boylston of New Hampshire. I was in a café, and heard a young American was searching for a place to stay.”
“Alexandra from Helena, Montana.” It was a peculiarity exercised by Americans to embrace a fellow countryman as if a long-lost acquaintance when crossing paths in strange lands.
“I’ve lived in Tirana for two years. My roommate has returned to the States, and I’ve been longing to share some apple pie conversation with someone for months.” Helen smiled grandly. “You must stay at my villa. We’ll listen to jazz, talk horses, and fire a rifle off the balcony if such tickles your fancy.”
“They fancy me to perfection,” gasped Alexandra.
She looked back. Agnes sat eating her green apple, smiling contently. The tiny thing waved farewell, and it took the American millionairess far too long to push aside her good fortune and wave back.
—‡—
SERVING AS A POLITICIAN in Albania was such a taxing and perilous vocation that its parliament, under no threat of firearms, had voted to abolish itself. In its place, they would form a constitutional monarchy, with the current president, Ahmet Bey Zog, elevated to royalty. He was an inscrutable fellow; born into a prominent family and both victor and vanquished in the bloody coups that had never allowed the fledgling democracy to shake off its training wheels. Zog attained the role of prime minister by age twenty-seven. He had occasion to get shot by a parliamentarian but gone about his business thinking little of it. The failed assassin was simply murdered in reprisal. It had cost Zog a brief exile, but he soon returned to rejoin the government.
Here, there were laws, and then there were Laws of Lek.
The powers of Europe had tried to quell the turbulent nature of the land by sending Prince Wilhelm Wied of Germany as de facto king in 1914. They built him a palace overlooking the sea, made him sovereign, and he had fled six months later. There was an international hope that a native-born monarch would fare better.
If Tirana typically hosted twenty thousand, on this day, it was fivefold. The Albanian Army was mobilized to provide security and decor. Most in the crowd wore western garb, with Muslim men donning a fez instead of the fedora favored by the Christians. Well-to-do families from other Balkan fiefdoms were present, hoping to introduce Zog to their daughters, as he was but an hour away from becoming Europe’s most eligible bachelor. School children in black and red uniforms trouped by singing patriotic songs and bicyclists whizzed along the periphery.
Alexandra could see a flair for the exotic to which Byron had written. Many women bore festive native dresses, with some of the men sporting kilt-like fustanellas. What most stroked her curiosity, however, were the malissori—rugged mountain men, who with but a strategic glare could send the gangs of New York to flight. They were dressed in bleached wool breeches and embroidered waistcoats; their heads swathed in headscarves, sashes loaded with daggers, and stocked bandoliers to feed their long rifles. Their high cheekbones were a birthright; the many scars having been earned. Only those allied with Zog’s formidable Matja clan were allowed into the city.
Alexandra made her way through the crowd in search of a sweet spot to photograph the royal motorcade. It was not proving easy. Along the entire procession route stood soldiers serving as barriers. Each time she climbed onto a lamppost or the hood of a car, a gendarme rushed over to demand she step down. Anticipation of an assassination attempt filled the arena. Albania was the cradle of the blood feud—Ahmet Zog was entangled in fifty such imbroglios—and it seemed likely someone would try to extinguish his rise to the throne.
Missing such a shot would be haunting.
Alexandra grew desperate to find a remedy and pondered if any nearby kiosks sold stilts. She threw up her arms in frustration and exclaimed, “My kingdom for a ladder!”
In her theatrics, a hand-sketched map of the city fell out of her camera bag. As the streets held no signposts, she’d made it to mark off Helen’s villa and other points of interest. She stopped chasing it from fluttering into the crowd upon seeing Agnes, who stood holding her suitcase and offering a half-smile. The sun was hitting the spot she stood, giving her an angelic glow. Alexandra sneered and walked away.
And there he stood. The young malissori appeared seven feet tall. She pushed her way through to him, hoping the colossus spoke English or at least was an enthusiast of charades. She settled in the middle of his raw-boned posse. “Hello, boys!”
They stared at Alexandra with curiosity as she held up her camera, pointed skyward, and patted her shoulders. The giant conferenced with his peers. He looked down and said, “Okay!”
The man squatted, and Alexandra mounted his shoulders. Her vantage point was supreme, and she went to work.
A military band marched by, followed by baijraktars of the loyalist clans, gymnasium students waving flags, and finally, the motorcade, flanked by gendarmes holding swords. Ahmet Zog sat in an Alfa Romeo; his pursed lips wrinkling his thin mustache as he waved to the cheering masses. He was a tall, lean fellow wearing a military uniform festooned with medals and ribbons for great battles yet fought or won.
Gendarmes pushed through the crowd, shouting for Alexandra to get down. The malissori were not letting them near and yelling back. She could not interpret their exact words, but their body language suggested they were the local equivalent of “fuck off!”
Zog’s car passed, and Alexandra scored perfection.
She motioned for the giant to set her down, wanting to avoid an international incident. The gendarmes persisted. A plain-clothes man with them reached out and took hold of her arm. “The new prime minister requests a word, Miss Bathenbrook.”
“Mirupafshim, fellas!” Alexandra waved farewell and surrendered herself. She hoped Albanian prisons rewarded well-behaved captives with baklava. “Who is the new prime minister?”
“I am.” He identified himself as Kostaq Kota. “We would like for you to photograph the swearing-in ceremony. We will compensate you for your time.”
Double-dipping. Ka-ching! Thankfully, she was wearing a nice dress and had purchased amber jewelry at the local bazaar to jangle her ears and wrists. “Why me?”
“You are an American woman. What can be safer than that?”
“You’d be surprised,” she cheekily said. “Anyhoo, lead the way!”
A small and select crowd filled the parliament room.
Alexandra was introduced to Zog. It seemed to go well, as he required prodding to abandon their discussion and get on with the ceremony of being crowned king. They removed her to the back of the hall and briefed her on what photographs they desired. Kota wished the focus to be on Zog’s pledge to rule a non-secular kingdom, inspire a love of nation, and introduce judicial reform. It spoke well Kota was an Orthodox Christian and among those populating the more enlightened regions south of the capital.
Ahmet Zog entered and took a stance on the dais. His mother and sisters filed to his side. The siblings spanned from Alexandra’s age to that of the thirty-two-year-old Zog. All five fostered dark hair, wore fashionable attire, and appeared glum for women about to be elevated into royalty. Alexandra focused on Zog, who graciously cooperated by often looking over and flashing her a dry smile.
He swore allegiance to the nation on both Koran and Bible... King! Applause filled the hall.
Alexandra replaced her film. After winding in a new roll, she glanced up to one of King Zog’s sisters. “Mirëdita!”
The tight-eyed woman hostilely stepped closer. “Ndaloni se flirtuari me Mbretin ose vini në shtyllë!”
Alexandra looked about. It had not been a very friendly greeting. A Bektashi dervish standing next to her said in English, “She said, ‘Stop flirting with king or face impalement.’”
“That doesn’t sound pleasant.”
She did not require further stink eye from the sisters to exit outdoors. The day had turned into a bonanza. It called for a round of raki, which would be available at Helen Boylston’s after-party. Alexandra took a seat on a bench and kicked off her shoes to rub her feet. Celebratory gunfire and music filled the air, with people stomping the cobble line dancing.
One young girl appeared unhappy.
Alexandra walked over and knelt beside her. She brushed aside the girl’s blonde hair to get to the tears. “What’s your name?”
“Eva,” the girl said in a thick accent. “I am lost to my family.”
Alexandra said, “I’ll help you find them. Where are you from?”
“Budapest. I once went to America. It is beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” Alexandra said, rubbing Eva’s arm. She winked, then whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but the love of my life lives in New York, though he doesn’t know we shall marry yet.”
Eva smiled. “Is he handsome and rich?”
“Very handsome. I’ll be the money. Do you miss Budapest?”
“Budapest is home, but no, New York is where I’d rather play.”
A blonde girl a few years older ran over. “Eva! Tesék!”
“Nóvér!” They hugged, and the problem seemed solved. Eva shyly informed, “This is my sister, Zsa Zsa.”
“‘Zsa Zsa,’” Alexandra said. “I simply love the name. Búcsú!”
The girls vanished into the crowd.
Alexandra lifted her camera to take a few parting shots of the festivities, and then her heart sank. She had left her camera bag somewhere. She ran back to the bench, but only her shoes remained. After looking about, she cursed upon spotting a young man peddling away on a bicycle with it wrapped over his shoulder. She saw Agnes gazing at her, offering that same annoying half-smile.
Alexandra grabbed her pumps and broke into a full sprint, needing to capture the rapscallion and retrieve her undeveloped film or disaster would loom. The farther from the center of town she ran, the dirtier the streets became and the narrower the alleyways. She could barely keep the swindler in her sight. She skidded across a steamy puddle of livestock droppings and crashed into a dung heap.
Huffing to catch her breath, she burst into tears. It is gone. It is over. I am lost.