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,
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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]
