The novel ‘A Woman between Two Men’, with an Albanian-American Theme, is authored by Carrie Hooper and Skifter Këllici
Who had written that poem? It was not exactly striking, but it was unique. Mary felt a sharp pain in her heart. She longed to know who had written the poems and was momentarily stunned when she read the name: Kreshnik Germeni. She thought it might be another Kreshnik but when she saw his photograph to the left of the poems, she was convinced it was Kreshnik himself. He did not look like a poet. He looked tough. Even if he was Kreshnik’s Siamese twin brother, the last poem, “What Are Memories?”, was the one Kreshnik had recited that night at the club in Del Mar Beach when he had compared memories to life’s ashes. Certainly no two people with the name of her Kreshnik could have written the same poem. She shuddered when she called him her Kreshnik and when from his photo, he, with that same beard, those same eyebrows, and those sparkling eyes, seemed to say, “So, Mary, we meet again. To be more exact, you see me, and I see you through these poems which I wrote for you.”
She had no doubt that was true. Wasn’t she the one, when they promised never to see each other again, who had advised Kreshnik to write and publish poems for his future partner? Indeed, he had done that. The only difference was he had not written about his future partner, but about Mary.
It was Kreshnik who longed to be Mary’s sick patient and have her take care of him the way she had cared for James Clemens, who had fallen off a ladder, and whom Kreshnik had brought to the hospital. Indeed, Mary had given the old man her undivided attention and had assured him he would get well soon. At that time, Mary and Kreshnik had had brief conversations when she had examined James, treated his wound, and given him medicine. Kreshnik, shy-looking and a man of few words, had thanked Mary and would have talked more with her but had changed his mind. He had been afraid to keep her because he knew she had other sick patients to attend to. There was no doubt about it: Kreshnik had written those poems for Mary alone.
The shell around her memories cracked, and they rose from the ashes, as in ancient folk tales, swirled violently, suffocated Mary, and took the form of Kreshnik. She felt as if he were present with her. She realized that no matter how many days and months went by, no matter how hard she tried to put out the flames, even if the ashes of her memories were dissolved, they would live on as millions of atoms that would find each other, reconnect, and ignite an inextinguishable fire as Kreshnik had written in his poem. Mary decided to call him to clarify the situation. But then, she changed her mind. It would be better to meet him the next day as she had a few weeks earlier. Charlie would be going to Los Angeles for work and wouldn’t be home for a few days. Mary would not have to be afraid of him appearing out of nowhere as had happened in her hallucinations a few minutes before she had met Kreshnik at the cafe near his house. But no, tomorrow was far away. Until then, curiosity and worry would gnaw at her. She forgot she had ordered Kreshnik never to show his face again and to get her out of his mind once and for all. She wanted to see him.
Did Mary want to meet Kreshnik just to find out if he had dedicated his poem to her and not to someone else? Unaware of what she was doing, she rose and picked up the telephone book with parched hands. Mary had had that feeling the last time she had called Kreshnik. She found his name and dialed his number. She waited and waited and thought she would die of impatience. Finally, she heard his voice and felt a blinding delirium that carried her from the present reality to a surreal universe with just the two of them. When she heard Kreshnik say, “Hello,” she dropped the receiver, as if someone had hit her on the head, and left. She felt his voice would pursue her, then turn into Kreshnik who would follow her, catch her, grab her arm, and embrace her. Afterwards, he and Mary would walk through the hospital corridors together, go up and down on elevators, and eventually leave the building. Then, they would embrace once more.
Mary decided to go to Wilma’s the following day. She would tell her what had happened after she had read Kreshnik’s poem.
As was often the case late at night, Kreshnik was listening to classical music on the radio when the phone rang. They were playing Faust’s and Marguerite’s duet from Gounod’s “Faust.” Kreshnik imagined Marguerite in the dark prison, exhausted, sorrowful, and filled with longing, but hopeful Faust will not abandon her. Suddenly, she hears his voice, that voice which gives her life, and she begins to sing with him. But alas, Mefistofoles, the devil, appears, and both Marguerite and Faust feel forsaken.
It was not too late, but hardly anyone called Kreshnik except for his boss or a friend of whom he had asked a favor. He picked up the phone and was surprised not to hear a response after he said, “Hello.” He thought someone had called a wrong number. Therefore, he waited a moment before hanging up. He was curious to see who had called him. The caller ID said, “San Diego Medical Center” and displayed the phone number. Kreshnik was stunned. That was the hospital where Mary worked. Who would have called from that hospital? He only knew one doctor who, during the time James had been there, had called Kreshnik to inform him that he was in good condition.
Had that doctor called him again? If so, why? After all these months, did he want to know how a certain James Clemens was doing, James who, after he had gotten drunk, had fallen asleep in a corner in the living room? No. Then who had called him? None other than Mary. But why? Kreshnik understood clearly that he was not to see her, not even from a distance. He was to erase her from his mind as one wipes dirt off a glass surface. “Out of sight, out of mind” as they say. This was the punishment Mary had exacted on him. Like a criminal who lowered his head and waited for the guillotine to chop it off, Kreshnik, too, had to lower his head in order not to see Mary. But when they had parted, she had not ordered him not to write poetry. On the contrary, she would be happy to read his poems, especially the ones about his future partner. So he had written some, not about his future partner since he did not have a partner and did not know if he would. He had written about a shapeless love interest. At least, that’s what he had thought, but he had been wrong.
After reading his poems, anyone who knew Mary and understood Kreshnik’s feelings for her would sense his burning desire to have Mary take care of him if he were sick and in the hospital. Even if no one else read his poems, Mary would read them and would realize that he had dedicated them to her. Thus, Kreshnik had broken his promise and had revealed publicly to whom he had addressed the words “If I were” which he had used as a leitmotiv.
Kreshnik felt abysmal and understood why Mary had called him.
“You failure of a poet, how could you do such a thing?!” These would be Mary’s angry words which now seemed to burn his face.
What’s more, Mary had the right to sue Kreshnik for hurting her dignity as a woman with inappropriate declarations. If that happened, he was ready to confess his crime.
The next morning, when Kreshnik arrived at the cafe where he usually went for coffee, he was sure his friends and acquaintances would say mockingly, “Well, my boy, not only did you catch that girl we saw you with in your net. You wrote poems for her!”
Kreshnik had been hunched over in his chair, but now he got up and began to pace back and forth like a mouse caught in a trap. Faust’s and Marguerite’s duet had ended, and Per Gynt by Grieg was playing, accompanied by James’ snoring. Thank God James had no interest in books for if he had read Kreshnik’s poem, he would have burst out, “When you decided to write a song for that Davenport girl, the least you could have done was to have it out with her fiancee!”
Then, as if in shock, Kreshnik said to himself, “But if she called me, why did she hang up? Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she decided to meet me in person in order to scold me and inform me that she is suing me.”
Another thought suddenly struck him: What if, just as she was about to call him, Mary decided to report him to the police or to Ralph Kallagan? She might say, “Hey, Ralph. You punished Kreshnik for drunk and disorderly conduct in a cafe. Well, did you know he is a drug trafficker who makes drugs in the cellars of San Diego and in the surrounding area?”
Kreshnik had entrusted Mary with this secret which she had promised not to reveal to anyone else. She had given her word according to the Albanian custom. But after the publication of Kreshnik’s poem, how could Mary keep her word when he had not kept his? He had openly expressed his love for her, a big mistake indeed.
He cursed himself for having gone to the office of the editor of “The Literary Magazine.” He had found the secretary, a woman beautiful enough to drive one crazy, listening to an old man’s ramblings. She knew all too well how harsh the editor was, especially with beginners. He would read their poems right then and there and would make fun of them. Surely he would do the same to Kreshnik and would mock him right in front of that beautiful woman, but he had not. After he had read Kreshnik’s poems, the editor, with a twinkle in his eye, shook his hand and exclaimed, “Congratulations, young man! I don’t know if you’ve ever been published before, but these poems, especially “If I Were”, are right on. Only a person in love could write with that kind of passion, and you have been in love. I will publish them as soon as possible. You have the makings of a poet.” The editor had kept his word.
Kreshnik was so happy when his poems were published, but now he was desperate. Still, he decided to see Mary again. This time would truly be the last time. He would apologize to her, then disappear for good. He would always love her but would never see her again, not even from a distance. It was worse than Dante and Beatrice in the Middle Ages. He would catch her some evening as she was leaving the hospital. He would try to see her tomorrow.
“But why wait until tomorrow? Why not do it now?” he asked himself.
It was not yet eleven. If Kreshnik drove quickly, he could reach the hospital. He would wait for Mary there. Things would go more smoothly if she were alone and not with Charlie or someone else.
Kreshnik got ready to go. He put on a blue and white-striped shirt and a blue jacket which he had never worn before, but which went well with his jeans. Then, he touched his beard and hair, which had grown even longer, and shook his head in despair. Mary had asked him to take better care of himself. He could not do anything about his appearance at this late hour. Besides, he did not have much time to get to the hospital. He would clean himself up tomorrow. At that moment, the phone rang again. This time, Kreshnik froze. Who could it be? Was Mary calling to blurt out the words she had planned to say when she and Kreshnik met? The phone’s annoying ring persisted, and Kreshnik felt as if it would jump up and hit him in the face. Therefore, he walked over to it and slowly lifted the receiver as if he were afraid he would break it.
He heard a woman’s voice and did not know what to say. His knees almost buckled.
“Hello, Nik. Don’t you know who I am?” the voice cajoled, as if wanting to caress him. Kreshnik was momentarily stunned and did not recognize the voice which seemed to come from the cosmic depths, carried with it the noisy and troubling rotation of the planets, and portended doom.
“That’s strange. It isn’t the first time I’ve called you,” the voice continued. “But either you’re taking a nap or dreaming about your girlfriend who abandoned you.”
“Oh, Dolores, is that you?” asked Kreshnik, clenching his jaws in anger.
“Yes, Nik. Forgive me for calling you so late, but your boss just asked me to give you a message: be at his office tomorrow around noon.”
“He didn’t tell you why?”
“You know it’s my job to give you messages. He’ll give you the details. I imagine it’s about our work. Good-bye, Nik. Don’t forget, be here tomorrow around noon.”
Dolores spoke as if she and Kreshnik were arranging a lovers’ meeting, as if only she would be waiting for him there and would kiss him as she had tried to kiss him that day at the club in Del Mar Beach when she had been a little drunk.
At other times during the past few months, Dolores had given Kreshnik a few looks which had expressed her intention to do whatever it took to get what she wanted.
Kreshnik hung up the phone in shock, as if he had just received bad news, which indeed he had. His boss had not forgotten him nor had he taken him off his list. He had not called just to say hello. He had a new job for him. Tomorrow he would take a load of drugs somewhere. They were a white sugar but a bitter, seductive poison, like a nymph from Paradise that lured you and took you up toward the sun, but before you reached your destination, it threw you into a turquoise abyss from which you never returned. Kreshnik was the bearer of those substances, the bearer of death.
“This time, I’m not going anywhere,” said Kreshnik to himself. (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,
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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]
