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HELEN BOYLSTON ONCE more proved a lifesaver. It was nothing new, as she was a nurse. She had served with the British Expeditionary Force and witnessed the worst carnage the Great War offered. Treaties ending wars do not bring peace to those who survive them. To aid her emotional recovery, she’d toured Europe in a maroon-colored Model-T she nicknamed “Zenobia” with another free spirit: the author Rose Wilder Lane. They had fallen in love with Albania and had taken up residency, adopting the role of socialites. Rose had returned to her little house on the Missouri prairie, and Helen was now primed to follow. Having washed Alexandra’s soiled clothes, she’d gone about playing dress-up.
Alexandra stood decked out in gorgeous ethnic attire. The gold stitchwork adorning her white blouse and red bolero was the brilliance of some mountain seamstress worthy of Coco Chanel, yet never to be known. Below a red waist sash, she wore a decorative black skirt, with leather sandals called shollas giving respite to her feet. Her hair was tamed by a lavish silk headscarf that swayed to her mid-back.
She tried to remain still in the mirror. “Who do you expect?”
“It’s an open house, so anyone and everyone.” Helen affixed a chain along Alexandra’s hairline, which held gold coins that dangled across her forehead. Helen added, “Perhaps the king himself.”
It was getting late.
Alexandra plugged in her earrings and clasped her bracelets. She looked at herself and smiled. She felt at home. Guests were arriving. Helen left to welcome them into her villa.
How does one inform a Balkan king that the only photographs of his coronation are gone? Alexandra applied lipstick and sighed, having no answer. She had not reported the theft, knowing the police would notify the royal family, and thereafter, she would be duly impaled. She planned to sneak to the port of Durrës come morning and flee to Italy.
The villa soon filled with colorful characters plating local delicacies and singing along off-key to the jazz records spinning the gramophone. Alexandra resigned herself to the balcony to sip champagne and greeted those who came out for a spot of air. Most did not linger, but she had cause to fend off an Italian diplomat named Ciano, who, while dreamy, was not her type. Stefan and Shpresa Veshi rejoined her. The young couple lived in Boston and were fun to gossip with.
A man arrived with two malissori. Stefan said, “The Kapidan of the Mirdita. Stay clear of him.”
“Does he have a communicable disease?” asked Alexandra.
Stefan was unsure. He explained the Mirdita were among the most powerful of the fierce Catholic clans. Their lands were the remote regions to the north, and they had never bent a knee to the Turks. “The kapidan’s father led a rebellion years ago. Soldiers under Zog put it down. It is odd he comes to Tirana today.”
Alexandra did not think the chieftain appeared intimidating. He was of average stature, in his forties, with a thick mustache and fading black hair. His wool suit and tie were modish. The man shared a pleasant conversation with Helen... and here they came.
Stefan and Shpresa bugged out.
Helen escorted the kapidan over by the arm. “My dear friend, Gjon MarkaGjoni. May I introduce Miss Alexandra Bathenbrook, who visits from America.”
Having no clue how to greet a kapidan, Alexandra held out her hand to be kissed... Hand still out there... Still out there...
MarkaGjoni seemed lost in a state of mental paralysis; his blank expression shaded with melancholy. Alexandra finally withdrew her hand, flushed with embarrassment.
Helen became spooked. “What is it, Gjon? Are you feeling ill?”
With the gentleness of a father, the kapidan kissed Alexandra upon both cheeks. He related what had enraptured his mind.
Helen’s lips bent up; her expression one of fascination.
“What is it?” Alexandra asked. “Have I offended the kapidan—”
To Alexandra’s wide-eyed gasp, MarkaGjoni lifted a pistol from his waistline, pivoted, and fired. Everyone stopped talking as the man charging with a long knife crashed to the floor. The shot had blown off a sizeable chunk of the assassin’s skull. MarkaGjoni tucked back his revolver and offered consolatory words to Helen about staining her throw rug. He dispatched a bodyguard to summon a gendarme. With that, he bowed and left the balcony to fix a plate from the buffet table.
It was odd. Everything drifted back to how it was. Alexandra remained shaken. “What just happened?”
“A blood feud,” Helen said. “The dead man is of the Thaçi.”
Alexandra needed some raki. “Why did the kapidan look at me in such a manner?”
“You remind him of a woman named Zana Rrëshani, whom he had loved from afar as a young man. He thought you a ghost or one reincarnated. He invites us to visit a village called Rubik tomorrow. It is where this Zana is buried. It would be quite the adventure!”
Helen departed the balcony to report the circumstances to an arriving gendarme. A man named Karl Vengver filled the void. He was an architect from Prague who had served with the Austro-Hungarian forces that had driven the defeated Serbian Army across the Adriatic Sea. He described his war experience here as a chilling affair. Some of his comrades were devoured by wolves or felled by the malissori. He was looking for investment opportunities to build something beautiful in a land he once helped to raze.
Alexandra suggested a hotel.
Vengver left the chat, nodding with approval.
Stefan and Shpresa returned. A man with a note had arrived with the gendarme. It was passed forward until reaching the hand to whom it was addressed. As no one knew she was even here, it struck Alexandra as ominous that someone had found her.
It was from King Zog. Shpresa translated. “You are invited to stay at the royal villa with the king and his family.”
It was a unique opportunity. “How painful is it to be impaled?”
Stefan informed, “It depends on the skill of the impaler. We judge them on how long their victim suffers before death. The best of them can send up a greased stake to miss the vital organs and pop it out at the shoulder. Two days is the unofficial record.”
Alexandra tapped a finger to her lips, giving thought to the invite. She moved aside and watched as the bodyguards rolled up the failed assassin in the soiled carpet for disposal.
The morning ferry to Italy appeared all the brighter.
Gjon MarkaGjoni moved on to the dessert tray; his honor retained, but appetite yet satisfied.
Helen escorted out the gendarme and soon returned. “There is a girl downstairs who asks to see you. Her name is Agnes Bojaxhiu. She’s heading for Ireland to join the Sisters of Loreto.”
“Why are her sisters in Loreto?” inquired Alexandra.
“Agnes says she is going to become a nun, and then they will send her to Calcutta.”
Alexandra sighed in relief. It was not the worst thing to be stalked by a future nun. They headed down the stairs. Waiting, holding her suitcase in one hand and Alexandra’s camera bag in her other, was Agnes—beautiful half-smile and all.
Alexandra crushed the tiny thing in a hug, stunned by her good fortune. All of her films were intact. “How did you find me?”
After Helen’s translation, Agnes took out the map that had blown into the wind.
Alexandra wiped away some tears. She jotted down her contact information on the map and then held out a roll of Italian lira. “Tell Agnes that if she has any needs in Ireland, I am but a brief trip away.”
Once translated, Agnes accepted the map but would not take the money. Alexandra again leaned down and hugged her. She finagled the lira into the pocket of her savior’s frock. “Mirupafshim.”
“Shkoni në veri. Përqafoni dritën.”
With that, Agnes left, walking off to her new life in an unknown land. Alone, but fully with God.
Alexandra’s cheek, where Agnes had rubbed it, tingled. “What did she say, Helen?”
“She said, ‘Travel north. Embrace the light.’”
—‡—
IT HAD BEEN A TOUGH decision: risk impalement by crazy princesses or a road trip with Helen Boylston. Alexandra set aside her musings over becoming Queen of Shqipëria and chose the latter. The sun had crossed the sky by the time Zenobia trampled the narrow valley track running alongside the Fani River. It was jagged and barren mountain country. Alexandra had grown up looking at the peaks of Montana—majestic ranges amidst panoramas of lush countryside spread to the horizon. These badlands were different.
The sweeping winds offered little welcome and whispered caveats of ambush. Vines covered the rubble of stone towers and houses abandoned to flame and cannon fire. Untended, long-forgotten grave markers abounded. It gave Alexandra a chill of claustrophobia. It was getting late. Helen struggled to keep from tumbling them into the river as she raced against the creeping darkness. She hit the brakes and turned off the engine upon coming to a fallen tree blocking the road.
They disembarked and started walking.
Alexandra soon spotted an old Ottoman bridge. Its humped arches spanned the river like a giant serpent. An eagle flew by, taking one final swoop over the water. She asked, “What can you tell me of the pirate queen? My mother visited a fortuneteller before my birth, who stated she held the blood of Teuta, the Illyrian queen, in her veins. Thus, my middle name.”
Helen said, “Teuta ruled the Ardiaei clan not too far from here. She waged war against Rome. Facing defeat, she jumped off a mountain into the sea rather than surrender.”
It impressed Alexandra. Teuta had left more of a legacy than the mere obligatory offspring and headstone. It was getting cold. “Have you driven the war free from your memory, Helen?”
“It will always be with me. I’m ready to return home and try. I’m desperate for a cheeseburger.”
They stopped walking upon hearing the howl of a wolf. It was a terrible time to be lost and unarmed.
Alexandra waited, her heart pounding. She spotted a dozen figures carrying torches crossing the bridge.
The first distinguishable figure was that of a woman. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, had golden hair, and flaunted a welcoming demeanor. “I am Luljeta. Rubik is just over the bridge.”
Working up from the riverbank along winding donkey paths stood the fortified stone kullas of Rubik. They were two stories in height and featured narrow slits that served as rifle ports more so than windows. A half-moon emerged and reflected off the lazy river and the steeple of the village church. Luljeta escorted them toward a bonfire and the several hundred villagers gathered to celebrate the visit of their kapidan.
Everyone was dressed in their finest.
Alexandra was pleased she wore her native garb for one last fling. Most Albanians she’d encountered posed Mediterranean appearance, but among the Mirdita, blonde hair and lighter eyes seemed more common. As the crowd parted, the older women reached out to touch her arm or spit before her path. They whispered amongst themselves.
“Zana died during childbirth,” Luljeta said. They settled within the circle. “They believe you are a shtriga, come to haunt the living. The kapidan is correct that you look much like her.”
A line of men, laden down with their war accouterments, were performing the precise steps of an “Eagle dance.” They interlocked their arms as they chanted battle cries, with the lead malissori swinging a saber. Gjon MarkaGjoni sat in a prime seat for the performance. Once it concluded, he introduced Helen and Alexandra. They took seats and were served plates of lamb. He stated his plans to head for his village of Orosh come morning, and Luljeta’s family would host them overnight.
Some women remained beguiled. Alexandra asked, “What became of Zana’s husband and child?”
Luljeta said, “The husband died a year before her death.”
A well-wrinkled woman standing nearby pointed at Alexandra and cursed, “Ajo ishte mbarsur nga Djalli!”
The kapidan told his bodyguard to escort the woman away. The musicians started playing an ancient melody. A few of the malissori cajoled their leader to dance for them. He stood to the cheers of his people and extended down his hand.
Alexandra looked up in a panic but did not deny his request. She asked Helen, “What do I do?”
Helen suggested, “Sway as if your father was a cobra and your mother a belly dancer.”
MarkaGjoni led Alexandra to the dancing area. The drummer laid down a slow, methodical beat, and the screechy vibrato of a clarinet and violin soon joined it. Alexandra circled the kapidan to the hoots and howls of their clapping audience, a growing sleekness to her predatory gestures. He stood like an obelisk, tapping only a foot while brandishing a puckish grin.
She smiled and raised the ante, articulating her hips with a sinuous seductiveness. The çiftatelli concluded.
“Sonte, je bija e shqiponjës!” MarkaGjoni handed her raki.
The crowd cheered wildly. Some shouted, “Ju jeni në shtëpi!”
The plum liquor warmed her throat and kicked her stomach. For at least tonight, Alexandra felt herself to be a “daughter of the eagle.” Once things settled, she asked to see Zana’s grave. Luljeta claimed a torch, and they marched through the darkness toward the church.
“Do any photographs of Zana exist?”
“No one had a camera in those days,” said Luljeta.
The tomb stood within an ancient hillside cemetery covered in vines. Nobody tended to the grave of a fallen woman. They had marked it Zana Rrëshani, as those of Rubik had not allowed her to further tarnish their village name. No stone for the child existed.
Luljeta said, “She was lovely. I’m ashamed of what happened.”
“What became of the child?” asked Alexandra.
“A victim of foul superstition. The elders swear the Devil ravaged Zana. They left the orphaned child for the wolves, but they would not feast. The priest took it to France.”
Alexandra squatted down and pushed away dead weeds. It revealed an inscription. Zana died on June 20, 1905, at the age of twenty-three.
It was the precise date of Alexandra’s birth.