The novel ‘A Woman between Two Men’, with an Albanian-American Theme, is authored by Carrie Hooper and Skifter Këllici

Chapter IX

Mary didn’t know how she got through those hours at the hospital. She kept asking herself the same question: Had she really seen Kreshnik from afar? When she had made her way through the crowd, she had only caught a partial glimpse of his hair, nose, and beard, nothing more. Whenever she got the chance, she went to the break room or to another part of the hospital with a television and watched the news. But she didn’t find out anything else.

She also called Wilma from work. She affected cheerfulness and told her she had seen Ralph’s interview on TV. She anxiously waited for Wilma to tell her that Kreshnik Germeni was among those arrested, not for drunken and disorderly conduct, but for drug trafficking. However, Wilma said she didn’t know anything and in general, her husband did not go into detail about his work since it was confidential.

Mary’s shift finally ended. Since Charlie was still away on business, she would go home alone.

She approached her car and was about to get in when suddenly, she heard a voice that made her blood freeze:

“Mary!”

Mary cried out and turned, stunned, in the direction from which the unfamiliar voice had come. In the light of the parking lot, she saw a tastefully dressed young man who looked at her with longing. She had encountered young, troublesome men before. She was about to explode in anger when, to her astonishment, she discovered it was none other than Kreshnik.

“What are you doing here?” she almost shouted.

She wanted to embrace him right then and there, put her trembling hands on his head, stroke his freshly cut hair, and touch his thick eyebrows, smooth face, and lips. He looked attractive. He had taken Mary’s advice and had worn a shirt and jacket, but she was not prepared for this sudden change. Her mind in a whirl, she looked around as if she feared someone might see her. Then she managed to say, “Get in the car right now!”

Kreshnik, who may have been expecting anything but this invitation, obeyed like a child who, instead of being struck on the arms and legs by the parent’s or teacher’s rod, finds himself in a car next to Mary.

Mary drove quickly as if she wanted to avoid danger. Frightened, she asked, “Have the police been after you?”

“Me?” said Kreshnik, surprised. “No, but tonight, I went to a cafe, and two officers saw me from the counter. They eventually left.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Absolutely not. Since the day I promised you I wouldn’t drink anymore, I haven’t had a single drop of whisky. But I had a drink at the cafe. I felt bad.”

“How come?”

Kreshnik shrugged his shoulders.

“Because of the poem I published in that magazine. It was you who called me that night and hung up, wasn’t it?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Mary said. This time, she did not look at him as if to imply that she and Kreshnik would eventually resolve their issues.

Mary drove a little farther, then stopped the car.

“There’s a cafe right here. Let’s go in for awhile,” she said as she and Kreshnik got out of the car.

The cafe was practically empty. Classical music played from a radio. Mary and Kreshnik sat at a table. Mary ordered two coffees while Kreshnik, numb, wondered what Mary would tell him. When he had seen her a few minutes earlier, he had noticed a faint twinkle in her eyes. He did not know if that was an expression of her glee at being able to punish him or if it meant something else. Mary hesitated, not knowing how to answer Kreshnik’s question from a few minutes earlier.

At last, she said, “Yes, I called you. I wanted to know who you dedicated those poems to, in particular, the one entitled `If I Were”, but then I changed my mind and hung up. I forgot you would find out I had called you after you had seen the name of the hospital where I work on the caller ID.”

“I’m sure you wanted to scold me for this grave error which continues to bother me.”

“No, the truth is, I liked your poems. But later, I got angry. You had some nerve dedicating a poem to me even though no one except Wilma knows about us.”

After a brief pause, as if to explain herself, she added, “I mean, the fact your love for me inspired you to write a poem about me after I had ordered you to write about another woman whom you would love, that’s what bothered me.”

A heavy weight fell from Kreshnik’s shoulders.

“That’s why I came, to ask your forgiveness. I should not have used such poor judgment,” he mumbled.

“Then why did you do it?” Mary persisted.

Nik felt drained.

“I no longer have the right to interfere in your life, Mary,” he said, meekly. “But no one can stop me from loving you from afar. No one, not even you. And I will continue to love you this way.”

“Platonic love? I said that once out of spite.”

“Let it be so.”

“And what will you gain?” Mary asked with pity. “You will suffer even more. Times have changed. Physical love expresses spiritual love.”

Mary felt she was saying these words against her wishes for if he had the courage to bend down and kiss her, she did not know if she would find the strength to resist him.

Mary looked at Kreshnik and did not care if other people were watching her. They would know she had fallen head over heels in love with this young man whose eyes changed color like the refractions of the setting sun on a mountainside or on the sea at twilight.

Anyone present at that moment would know that Mary burned with a longing she could not and did not try to conceal. When she came out of this intoxicating state, she said to Kreshnik, “That’s why we need to separate. We’re headed in different directions.”

Then, to change the subject, she said, “As I told you before, these clothes make you more attractive.”

She bit her bottom lip after she said those words, then continued, “I’m glad you’re giving up alcohol. Now you have to leave that dirty business. This morning, Ralph Kallagan told me that one of his officers saw you in a bar. Just so you know, he swore that if you get drunk and cause a disturbance or if he finds out you are involved with drugs, he will cuff you. That’s why I went looking for you. When I watched the news this morning, as I have every morning since we last saw each other, I didn’t know whether or not anything bad had happened to you. I even wanted to come to your house, and I probably would have if you hadn’t come to the hospital.”

“Thank you, Mary,” said Kreshnik, his voice filled with longing. “I am trying to escape this awful business.” He told her about his conversation with Max Cooper and explained how his disgusting boss had wanted to send him to Sacramento, that he had told him he was sick when, in fact, he had wanted to meet Mary to ask her forgiveness for having written the poem.

Mary listened with a broken heart and soul.

“I have forgiven you,” she said. “After all, your poems were moving.”

Kreshnik felt a dizzying impulse. Even he didn’t know why he reached for Mary’s hand and squeezed it. He noticed she did not pull away. He told her how he had become a victim of the trap that Max Cooper had set for James. Kreshnik’s tragic story weighed heavily on Mary.

A piano piece was playing on the radio, the notes of which seemed to descend lightly from an immeasurable space in order to cajole Kreshnik and Mary.

“That’s Chopin,” said Nik. He felt uneasy about holding Mary’s hand. “`The Farewell Waltz.` Have you ever heard it?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know it was by Chopin,” said Mary.

“He dedicated it to his beloved, Maria Vozinski. They were forced to part.”

“Why?” Mary wondered.

“Chopin was in Leipzig where Count Vozinski’s family lived. The Count was Maria’s father. Maria agreed to marry Chopin but begged him not to go to Poland. However, his homeland was calling him and needed that great composer. So they broke up. Chopin composed that waltz in memory of their ill-fated love.”

Kreshnik closed his eyes, as if he were experiencing that painful separation, and continued, “I read in a book that Chopin played that waltz before he and Maria separated. It reminded her of white flowers, raining down from heaven, which she tried to catch, but they slipped through her fingers. They hit her face and shoulders, and she felt as if she were sinking into them. The notes of that waltz were the flowers of parting.”

Kreshnik’s voice trembled, and his eyes shone like stars in the night sky.

“How hard it is for those in love to part and never see each other again,” he said. “I remember a poem about separation by a great Albanian author and poet:

`Even if my tired memory

Only stops at the main stations

Like the subways after midnight,

I will not forget you.

I will remember

The infinite, quiet evening of your eyes,

The muffled sob that landed on my shoulder

Like invisible snow.

The time came for us to part.

I moved far away from you,

But sometimes at night,

My miles-long fingers will meet those of someone else

As they stroke your hair.” (Continues) 

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5,  Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, 

___________________

About the Authors 

Carrie Hooper was born and raised in Elmira, New York. She has been blind since birth. She received a B.A. in vocal performance from Mansfield University, Mansfield, Pennsylvania.  She went on to receive an M.A. in German and an M.A. in vocal performance from the State University of New York at Buffalo. After completing her studies, she spent a year at the Royal University College of Music in Stockholm, Sweden as a Fulbright scholar. Carrie currently lives in Elmira, New York. She taught German, Italian, and Romanian at Elmira College. She has a passion for foreign languages and in addition to the languages mentioned above, she is also proficient in Swedish, Spanish, and Albanian. Music also plays an important role in Carrie’s life.  She teaches voice and piano lessons, gives vocal concerts, plays the piano and organ at a church, and sings in a community chorus. Carrie not only loves music and languages, but also enjoys poetry. She has published three books: “Piktura në fjalë” (“Word Paintings”), a bilingual collection of poetry (Albanian-English), “My Life in My Words”, and “Away from Home.” She has also translated texts from Albanian and Romanian to English.

Skifter Këllici was born in Tirana, Albania and received a diploma in history and literature from the University of Tirana. He worked as a journalist, scholar, and sportscaster on radio and television. He is the author of several novels and nonfiction books, including the children’s books, “Memories of the Old Neighborhood” and “In the Footsteps” as well as the historical novels, “Assassination in Paris”, “The Murderer with the White Hands”, and “September Disaster.” He wrote the screenplay for “In the Footsteps” which won a special prize at the International Children’s Film Festival in Giffoni, Italy in 1979. He has lived in Boston, Massachusetts since 1999.

[The book ‘Disastrous September is being reproduced in episodes with the consent of the author]

The novel ‘A Woman between Two Men’, with an Albanian-American Theme, is authored by Carrie Hooper and Skifter Këllici

She turned down another street. Suddenly, she spied a crowd of people in front of a market. Several police officers had just arrested two young men. One of them had a beard, a mustache, and long hair. What if it was Kreshnik?

Terrified, Mary stopped on the sidewalk and charged forward to get a closer look. But that was impossible because the hordes of people around her blocked her view.

“Nik! Nik!” she shouted, unaware that some of the people in that crowd might know Kreshnik and Charlie. She was also oblivious to the fact that Ralph or Scott might be there. But the din of people and cars drowned out her cries. Mary’s sad eyes followed Kreshnik from behind. She tried again to move forward, but her way was blocked. Still, she could make out the police officers who lowered his head and put him in a car which sped off, followed by television cameras.

“Do you know them?” Mary asked a bystander.

“They’re not worth knowing,” he replied. “They’re druggies. I hope they go to prison for a long time.”

Shaken, Mary turned and went toward her car.

“Excuse me, Ma’am, but you owe 30 dollars for illegally parking on the sidewalk.”

Mary turned, and a policeman handed her the ticket. She immediately took out a bill from her purse and handed it to him. From there, she went straight to the hospital and left her car in the parking lot. It was quarter to three. She headed for the break room and watched the TV news. She grew anxious. Near the end of the broadcast, a correspondent announced that the San Diego Narcotics Division had just completed a successful operation. A days-long investigation had ended with four arrests. Mary opened her eyes wide in an attempt to at least make out Kreshnik’s face, but she could only see part of his profile. Was it or was it not he? How could she know that Kreshnik no longer had a beard, a mustache, or long hair? Meanwhile, the correspondent was interviewing Ralph Kallagan.

“We will continue our operation without interruption,” said Ralph, whom Mary had seen less than two hours ago. “San Diego has a very complicated network of drug producers and traffickers. Our work has just begun. We will continue our investigations and raids.”

“Our viewers would be interested to know the names of the people you arrested,” said the correspondent.

Mary froze.

“Right now, that information is confidential since this is an ongoing investigation,” Ralph explained. “We’ll release the names later.”

Mary did not feel like watching any more of Ralph’s interview. Overwhelmed, she went to her work station.

When Kreshnik left Dolores’ office, he breathed deeply as if he had just come out of a stuffy room. He had purposely not brought his car. When he made drug runs, Max usually gave him a safer car than his own. Kreshnik wandered aimlessly. He went from sidewalk to sidewalk past shops, restaurants, parks, and skyscrapers, unaware that a stocky man in a brown jacket followed him.

To his surprise, it was after five. He decided to go to a cafe he sometimes frequented. He sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. He had followed Mary’s advice and had not touched alcohol for several days. But he did not like the coffee. It made him nervous. So after thinking long and hard, he ordered whisky. The alcohol went down easily and made him oblivious to everything. It did not take him long to empty his glass.

“Forgive me, Mary, that I did not keep my word,” he said to himself.

Once again he failed to notice the stocky man sitting behind him. He ordered another whisky which he drank more slowly. As he sat there, not knowing what he would do next, two policemen entered the cafe. Kreshnik was momentarily frozen with fear. Had they come for him? Maybe Mary had reported him to Ralph Kallagan and had accused him of writing an offensive poem about her. That afternoon in front of the restaurant, Mary had claimed that Kreshnik had followed her and had wanted to make love to her. Why wouldn’t she do the same now? After all, she had the proof, that cursed poem. Furthermore, she might have told Ralph that Kreshnik was a drug trafficker, and Ralph might have sent these policemen after him.

One of the officers looked at Kreshnik with suspicion. He interrogated the cafe’s owner who sometimes nodded and sometimes shook his head in response to his questions. Then, the policemen left the cafe. The one officer, however, still kept his eyes on Kreshnik as if to say, “Drink but don’t get drunk because I mean business.”

Kreshnik did not drink any more whisky. In his oblivion, he heard someone call him by name. He turned and saw Petrit walking over to him. Petrit sat down next to Kreshnik and gently put his hand on his shoulder.

“I saw you from my car when you came in here, and you looked upset,” he said with concern in his eyes. “So I parked my car and came to see you. What’s going on?”

“Nothing much,” said Nik. He felt uptight.

“I loved your poems in “The Literary Magazine.” You must be happy to be a published poet. Congratulations. Some of my Albanian and American friends liked them, too.”

“Thank you, Petrit.”

“I’m sure you’ve written others.”

Nik nodded.

“I’m sure they’re beautiful. Therefore, don’t wait. Publish them. Who knows? Maybe you’ll win a scholarship to study literature.”

“Mary said the same thing that day in the garden,” said Nik with a twinge of sadness.

He regretted having uttered those words, but it was too late.

“You see, I wasn’t mistaken,” said Petrit. He squinted and added, “By the way, don’t you have a girlfriend? The way you two looked at each other, especially when you were dancing so gracefully, you looked like two lovers. The young people around you didn’t cheer, `Long live the happy couple, long live the lovers!` for nothing. I’m sure the two of you heard their cries. Or were you in another world?”

“It seemed that way to you, Petrit, but now she’s engaged to an all-American scientist,” murmured Kreshnik and wrinkled his forehead.

Petrit changed the subject in an attempt to make his friend feel better.

“I almost forgot to tell you my biggest news: I leave for Albania the day after tomorrow. I haven’t seen my parents and younger sister in three years. Also I will perform some of my songs on television.”

“That’s great!” said Kreshnik, attempting a smile.

“Maybe next year, we’ll go to Albania together. It would be your second visit since you and your father escaped. Maybe by then, you will have published your first book of poetry in America and maybe in Albania. Maybe you will write the lyrics for my songs, and maybe we’ll be invited to perform on Albanian television. What do you think?”

“You exaggerate, Petrit. I, publish a book of poetry, published even in Albania? I, the lyricist for your songs?”

Nik could hardly suppress a groan.

“Oh, Lord, what happened to this good man?” said Petrit to himself. “When I get home from Albania, we will meet, and I will find out why you suffer so much. Perhaps it’s a matter of love. Does it involve Mary or is it something else?”

Petrit looked at Kreshnik with pity, put his hand on his shoulder again, and said gently, “Forgive me, Brother. Forgive me.”

Then, he rose and started to leave. Nik remained seated with his head down. Suddenly, he rose quickly and extended his hand to Petrit, who had already reached the door, to stop him and get his attention, but then he froze and fell back into his chair.

What fantastic dreams Petrit had shared with Kreshnik right when he had reached a crossroads. The man in the brown jacket continued to keep his eyes on him.

A short time later, Kreshnik’s cell phone rang. It was James asking when he would be home. Kreshnik told him he would be late.

He did not know how long he stayed in that cafe. He did not pay attention to who came and went. But when he saw that darkness had fallen and that it was after nine in the evening, he jumped up, left the cafe, and walked deliriously along the crowded, noisy sidewalk, bathed in the lights from billboards. Why had that officer talked to the cafe’s owner and looked at him so intently? What had he said to the owner, and how had the owner responded? Maybe they had talked about Kreshnik. Maybe the policeman had discovered that he, too, was a drug trafficker. Maybe the police were watching him right now. There was no reason for Kreshnik to think otherwise.

He heard two young people talking beside him.

“I saw several policemen,” said the first person, surprised. “What’s going on?”

“Didn’t you see the midday news! They arrested some drug dealers,” the second person explained.

“Do the police suspect there are drug dealers in the cafe?”

“Who knows what those men in blue think?”

So those policemen might have come to the cafe to see what Kreshnik was doing and could slap the cuffs on him at any time! After he mulled over these terrifying thoughts, he headed for the nearest police station. It would be better to turn himself in than for the police to catch him and arrest him. This would relieve him of his overwhelming anxiety which he and Mary had talked about. The stocky man followed him.

He almost dragged his feet when he entered the police station. The officer on duty was on the phone. Kreshnik waited with bated breath until the officer had finished his conversation. He thought his heart would stop. He looked oblivious to his surroundings.

“How may I help you?” asked the officer, looking closely at the finicky but shy young man. He was middle-aged with a thin mustache.

The most horrifying moment of Kreshnik’s life had come, the moment he had thought about again and again. He had to say to this officer, who looked at him curiously, the words which would end his life as a free man and would label him a lawbreaker. Indeed, the law showed no mercy for crimes resulting in death. In that dreadful instant, Kreshnik had to say the words which would put him behind bars.

“Officer, my name is Kreshnik Germeni. I have come to turn myself in because I … I … how should I say … have been a drug trafficker for many years. I have managed to escape a few police ambushes.”

“Sir, you look rather pale. Are you sick? Would you like me to call an ambulance to take you to the hospital?” said the officer who had now risen from his chair.

Just then, Kreshnik realized he had not said the words he had stored in the recesses of his spinning mind. He broke out in a cold sweat, his vision blurred, and he felt dizzy. The officer went over to help him, but he quickly came to. Images flashed through his mind. He pictured himself in a dark prison cell, lonely, far from the hustle and bustle of life and from Mary who had decided to meet him for the last time.

“Thank you, Officer,” said Kreshnik, “but that’s not necessary.” He tried to look as calm as possible. “The truth is, I felt very weak and came here to ask for your help, but now I feel better. Anyway, I appreciate your willingness to help me.”

“At least sit down for a few minutes. I’ll bring you a glass of water,” said the officer, gently, and pointed to the chairs in the lobby.

“No, thank you. I feel much better now.”

After he wished the officer a pleasant evening, Kreshnik left.

Once again, he was part of the crowds around him and part of the buzz of activity. Life in all its splendor flourished in the streets, promenades, and parks. What a contrast to the somber prison where he, just a few minutes before, had wanted to be. He practically ran as if he feared the officer, who had shown him much kindness, would remember why he had come to see him.

Kreshnik hurried toward a taxi parked along the sidewalk. A passenger got out, and he got in. After a few minutes, he arrived at a park across from the hospital. He sat on a bench and waited. It was twenty to eleven. Kreshnik would try to see Mary in twenty minutes.

He shivered, but not because of the evening breeze. Unbeknownst to him, the stocky man in the brown jacket continued to watch him from a distance. (Continues) 

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5,  Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, 

________________

About the Authors 

Carrie Hooper was born and raised in Elmira, New York. She has been blind since birth. She received a B.A. in vocal performance from Mansfield University, Mansfield, Pennsylvania.  She went on to receive an M.A. in German and an M.A. in vocal performance from the State University of New York at Buffalo. After completing her studies, she spent a year at the Royal University College of Music in Stockholm, Sweden as a Fulbright scholar. Carrie currently lives in Elmira, New York. She taught German, Italian, and Romanian at Elmira College. She has a passion for foreign languages and in addition to the languages mentioned above, she is also proficient in Swedish, Spanish, and Albanian. Music also plays an important role in Carrie’s life.  She teaches voice and piano lessons, gives vocal concerts, plays the piano and organ at a church, and sings in a community chorus. Carrie not only loves music and languages, but also enjoys poetry. She has published three books: “Piktura në fjalë” (“Word Paintings”), a bilingual collection of poetry (Albanian-English), “My Life in My Words”, and “Away from Home.” She has also translated texts from Albanian and Romanian to English.

Skifter Këllici was born in Tirana, Albania and received a diploma in history and literature from the University of Tirana. He worked as a journalist, scholar, and sportscaster on radio and television. He is the author of several novels and nonfiction books, including the children’s books, “Memories of the Old Neighborhood” and “In the Footsteps” as well as the historical novels, “Assassination in Paris”, “The Murderer with the White Hands”, and “September Disaster.” He wrote the screenplay for “In the Footsteps” which won a special prize at the International Children’s Film Festival in Giffoni, Italy in 1979. He has lived in Boston, Massachusetts since 1999.

[The book ‘Disastrous September is being reproduced in episodes with the consent of the author]