The novel ‘A Woman between Two Men’, with an Albanian-American Theme, is authored by Carrie Hooper and Skifter Këllici
Chapter V
Kreshnik stood in front of the bathroom mirror and cleaned a cut under his left eyebrow which James had treated. Traces of dried blood ran from the wound to his cheekbones. The pain made him open and close his eyes.
From the half-open bathroom door, James gave Kreshnik a mocking look.
“With all the money you have made from the jobs your boss has given you, I thought you spent the night with a girl. Come to find out, Ralph Kallagan threw you in jail!” he shouted. “And why? Because of that Mary Davenport. You’re crazy about her.”
“It wasn’t my fault, James!” Kreshnik replied, wrinkling his eyes with sadness.
“How is it not your fault! You seduced Ralph’s wife’s friend who’s engaged for that matter!”
“I didn’t seduce her. I confronted her. You have no right to judge her. I told you about the misunderstanding at the club in Del Mar Beach.”
“Do you blame me for that? Thank God Ralph Kallagan only kept you in jail for a few hours after the police beat you up. The same Kallagan, who had respected your late father all those years ago, now ordered his officers to beat you! You should have told them …”
Kreshnik groaned and came out of the bathroom. He was angry.
James sat down at the table, poured a glass of whisky, and set it in front of Kreshnik.
“Drink it up, Nik, and get some sleep,” said James. “When you wake up, you, brave as you are, will think about what you have done for your boss and will find a girl who will love you more than you love her.”
“Leave Max out of this. He’s got me by the neck.”
“I agree with you. You wanted to become a carpenter, but instead you are working for him.”
“It’s ill-gotten gain. Don’t be surprised if one day, I turn myself in to the police to get away from him.”
“That will be an act of true bravery, Nik. The papers and TV news will call you a hero. They will make movies about you. But people with sense, like me, will say, `What’s gotten into that fool?` So will that Davenport girl. After all, where else will she find a stream flowing with gold instead of water? She will pursue you even in prison.”
“She would if she loved me, but unfortunately, she doesn’t. But why are you telling me stories? You have no idea what true love is.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve fallen in love without lifting a finger.”
“You’ve never been in love.”
“Then what was it? Was I daydreaming? No. For every time I hugged and kissed those big girls, I put my God-given tool in them, and it took us to Paradise. Is there any greater love than that, my friend? I have experienced all kinds of love. So when your father, whom I loved like a brother, passed away, I promised to raise you as my own son.”
“I told you, you have no idea what love is,” Kreshnik interrupted.
“Then go and see that Davenport girl again. Let her treat the wound under your eyebrow like she treated the one in your arm that you got on the beach. Have her rub the places on your back that were bruised when the police beat you. Those blue eyes and round buttocks, which I saw in the hospital when she treated the cut on my leg, and her hair, which brushed my cheeks, would make the dead rise from their graves, as the proverb says.”
Kreshnik motioned for James to be quiet.
“But know this, my dear boy, if her fiancee sees you, you can imagine how jealous he’ll be. If he presses charges against you, Ralph Kallagan will beat you to a pulp or worse, you’ll spend a few years in the big house.”
Kreshnik looked cross-eyed at James. He did not speak. James poured another glass of whisky for himself, and after he enticed Kreshnik with his fatherly eyes, he said, “A toast to your future love interests.”
But their glasses did not touch.
Although she had talked to Wilma, and although Wilma’s words had comforted her, Mary felt anxious. When she took her morning shower, the cool drops of water seemed to hit not only her body, but also her brain cells which revived the terrifying images from the restaurant. She wished she could uproot those cells, but as if they were taking revenge, they made her recall every sight, in particular, Kreshnik’s worried look when the officers forced him into the car. He seemed to say, “Why, Mary? Why are you doing this to me?”
She came to, but as she stood in front of the mirror, she saw, to her astonishment, an exhausted face with hollow eyes and dry lips. The face in the mirror frightened her, and she almost screamed. Who was that woman who seemed to condemn her? She soon regained her composure, however, when she realized that face, those eyes, and those lips were hers and hers alone. How she had changed!
She hurried into the closet and pulled out a skirt and a sweater. Then, she combed her hair without looking in the mirror, as if she were afraid of it. After she combed her hair, she took the telephone book from the dresser and leafed through it until she reached the letter G. Her trembling pointer finger slid down the page until she found the name Kreshnik Germeni and his address, 46 Market Street. She lifted the receiver, dialed the number, and hung up the phone. She almost burst into tears.
Then she wandered around the room like a tiger in a cage. She had finally made a decision.
Mary drove through the noisy streets of San Diego. After awhile, she looked at the electronic tablet near the steering wheel on which she had written Kreshnik’s address. Her face grew somber when she saw the outline of the one-story house where Kreshnik lived.
Mary parked her car next to a sidewalk. She could hardly contain herself. She took her cell phone out of her bag, bit her lower lip, and dialed a number.
Meanwhile, Kreshnik was buttoning his shirt and was getting ready to go out to meet a friend who had called him a short time ago. James had downed his first glass and was filling a second one.
“Drink it like you do sometimes. It won’t hurt you,” he said when he saw that Kreshnik had not yet touched his glass. But Kreshnik picked up his jacket which he had left on a chair, waved to James, and was about to leave when the telephone rang. He walked over to it and froze when he saw the name “Mary Davenport.” When the phone rang again, he anxiously lifted the receiver.
“Hello, Nik.”
The coldness of her voice made him shiver.
“It’s Mary, and I want to see you.”
“Me!” said Kreshnik, surprised.
“Yes. I’m in my car at your house. If you’re there, please come to the door.”
“I’m coming,” he almost whispered.
Mary hung up the phone before he could say anything more. For some moments, Kreshnik was paralyzed with shock.
Mary fixed her eyes on the house, surrounded by a small flower garden. She rhythmically tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Kreshnik left the house, walked through the yard, and stepped onto the sidewalk. Mary held her breath when she saw him. She was shocked when she saw the bandage on his left eyebrow. He stopped at the low gate as she had requested. Mary got out of the car and walked toward him. Suddenly, Charlie came out of a nearby shop, his eyes aflame behind his silver glasses. He raised his hand and waved it threateningly at Mary.
“What have we here?” he boomed. “You invite me to make love to you as if nothing is wrong. Hardly have I said, `No,` stupid as I am. Then you run to him. I swear, he’s coming on to you with his hair, mustache, and beard, the scum! I picked up on your game this morning so I set a trap for you with that letter. I followed you just now. I caught you running after him.”
Mary became defensive. “That’s not true!” she said, looking around. People stopped and stared at the man, running after his wife.
Charlie rushed toward Mary who took a step back, screamed, and hung her head in shame. But when she lifted her eyes, she saw to her astonishment that Charlie had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him. Everyone else had disappeared, too. Mary had imagined the whole thing. Everyone went about his business. Cars went in all directions. The sun continued to shine as it had for millions of years. Only one thing seemed real: Mary’s scream.
It appeared that Kreshnik had heard the scream and had turned quickly. He stood coldly in front of her, as if wanting to ask, “Why did you come?”
“I came to apologize,” said Mary as if she had understood Kreshnik’s questioning look.
He had probably expected her to say something, but not the words she uttered with a voice that sounded like dissipating steam. Mary’s shock and anger had begun to disappear.
“Let’s go to a cafe to talk!”
These pleading words sounded to Kreshnik like an order, and he remained speechless. Suddenly he shrank, grew numb, and clung to Mary. Mary saw a cafe on her right. As she headed toward it, Kreshnik followed her like a pet. (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,
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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]
