The novel ‘A Woman between Two Men’, with an Albanian-American Theme, is authored by Carrie Hooper and Skifter Këllici
Mary was mesmerized by the verses which Kreshnik recited with a gentleness that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.
“What is this poet’s name?” she asked.
“Ismail Kadare. He’s a world renowned author.”
“Do you know Albanian?”
“Not very well, but here in America my father only spoke Albanian to me.”
“Have you ever been to Albania?”
“Yes, in the summer of 2006. My father had said we would go home again one day. Many years after his murder, I went back to Albania. I visited the village where I was born and from where, as I told you, my father and I escaped to Greece. From Greece we came to America.”
“That must have been quite an experience!”
“It was amazing. A journalist from Albanian Television interviewed me at Rinas Airport in Tirana. During the interview, I made one request: to meet the generous border guard who put himself at risk so we could cross the border. Then, a miracle happened.”
Mary folded her hands and crossed her fingers as if holding fast to every syllable of Kreshnik’s story.
“I arrived in the village in the afternoon during a wedding feast,” said Kreshnik. “They immediately put me at the head of the table, laden with all kinds of good food. They served a typical Albanian drink called raki. They put me at the head of the table, not only because I was a friend, but also because I was Loni Germeni’s son. The villagers considered him a brave man because he died to save an American policeman. Later, the singing and dancing started. I danced, too, and remembered that when I was five years old, I had danced at a wedding a few days before our escape from Albania. At first, it was difficult to stay in rhythm. That happened to me the night you and I danced at a bar in Del Mar Beach. Remember?”
Mary nodded and recalled the moment she nearly fell on Kreshnik’s chest. A wave of warmth had washed over her. She felt it even now.
“Then,” Kreshnik continued, “they sang songs about weddings, love, and the immigration that began in the fifteenth century when the Turks invaded Albania. The people who left Albania at that time settled in southern Italy and Greece. A friend of my father’s, wasted away, likely from the load of care he had borne on his shoulders, began to sing a song about immigration.”
And Kreshnik, as if worried he would disturb the few customers enjoying a glass of whisky before the cafe closed, sang softly:
“The stars disappeared.
The immigrants left.
My husband, stay, don’t go!
Stay with me, protect me from fear.
I dreamed about you while I slept.
Your bag fell into the river.
I reached out my hand and gave it to you.
I could not bid you farewell …”
Mary was spellbound. When Kreshnik whispered the meaning of this sorrowful song, she felt as if she herself was the young woman whose husband had just left her. Soon she would have to bid Kreshnik an impassioned farewell. After all, he was neither her husband nor her lover. Perhaps she should leave him quietly. Kadare had said a silent good-bye to his beloved with his poem.
“My eyes filled with tears,” said Kreshnik. “My father often sang that song in Las Vegas. The only difference was, he didn’t leave my mother. As I told you, she died giving birth to me.”
“Immigration was awful for you Albanians!” said Mary.
“Other countries experienced the same phenomenon, particularly those of the Balkans,” said Kreshnik. “There was the exodus of 1990 and ’91 when many Albanians escaped from the brutal Communist regime, one of the worst in Europe, just like my father and I did in 1985. Unfortunately, there were few border guards like the one who helped us cross into Greece. Many young people were shot and killed at the border, I’m sure, by order of the cruel commandants. That wasn’t all. In order to instill fear, the Communist leaders ordered the corpses to be exhibited in the town squares.”
Mary was struck by the things Kreshnik told her.
“Were you able to meet that border guard before you left Albania?” she asked.
“After I finished dancing, the wedding guests cheered,” said Kreshnik with a smile. “Then my father’s old friend came up to me and said, `Kreshnik, we have a surprise for you.` He pointed to a man in a sport coat, no more than thirty-five, and said, `This man is not from our area. He came from a remote village in Tropoja in northern Albania. I’ll let him tell you who he is.` He turned to him and looked at him intently.
“`My name is Besnik Bala. I am a teacher,` the man said, pumping my hand with both of his. `I heard on television that you wished to meet me. Well, here I am. I am the guard who let you and your father cross the border on that cold winter night.` I never expected to meet him. I fell on his chest. `My father often spoke of you,` I said, embracing him. `He always wanted to meet you and express his gratitude to you. But that never happened.` … `You mentioned that during your TV interview,` he said. `Why did you let us go,` I asked. `We Albanians suffered under the Communists,` he explained. `We dreamed of becoming like Europe one day, like the West. How could I not let you go to that world?` `Now we meet again,` I said, `and Albania is becoming like the West.`”
“What a remarkable and moving experience!” said Mary. Until now, she had not made even the slightest movement and had kept her eyes on Kreshnik. He looked quite different without his beard and mustache, but he was still attractive.
“John Belushi’s visit to his native village in Albania was also very moving,” Mary added. “I saw him interviewed on CNN.”
“I saw that interview, too. I also saw pictures of the village where his father was born.”
“Belushi, like you, is proud to be Albanian.”
“That makes him even more special.”
As sparks die down, so, too, Kreshnik’s and Mary’s conversation died down. One touch would have reignited those sparks which, perhaps, would have generated even more heat. Kreshnik and Mary wished for that but dared not say so. They wanted to be together for as long as possible.
Kreshnik broke the icy silence. He looked at his watch and said, “It’s after midnight. Don’t you think it’s time to go?”
“Wow! I had no idea it was so late! Fortunately Charlie, my fiancee, is at a symposium in San Francisco,” said Mary, getting up from the table.
Charlie! The name flashed through Kreshnik’s mind. He recalled his angry face in front of the restaurant. Mary regretted having mentioned his name for it seemed to have reminded Kreshnik that her fiancee stood between them.
“I have to hurry because I have to take a taxi,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that,” Mary insisted. “I’ll take you home.”
Kreshnik was overjoyed, and his eyes sparkled. Maybe he and Mary could continue their conversation a little longer.
Kreshnik went to see the waiter.
“It’s my turn tonight, remember?” said Mary, holding Kreshnik’s hand.
Kreshnik nodded.
They left the cafe and got in the car. Since the streets were practically deserted, Mary could have driven more quickly, as she usually did when that was the case, but she did not want to. She wanted to wander through the streets, turn around, and go left or right to delay the inevitable as long as possible. She wanted to have car trouble so she could stay with Kreshnik even longer.
She wanted to talk to him but couldn’t. Perhaps it would have been easier to extract the most expensive, unknown mineral from deep underground than to express the things which tormented her. Silence spoke for her now and was as long as the streets they traveled.
Mary stopped in front of Kreshnik’s house. A few weeks earlier, she had seen him come out and had imagined that Charlie was following her in order to curse her for her infidelity. She shook with delirium.
Kreshnik and Mary stood motionless for a few moments, as if they were afraid of one another, as if they were on the verge of entering a world of unforeseen horrors. To shield themselves from danger, they froze in place. They were ready to throw themselves into each other’s arms after each attack. They would stay that way and would protect each other forever.
They had not noticed the stocky man nearby, watching them from his car.
Kreshnik turned to Mary, and words as heavy as lead poured out of him, accompanied by sobs: “Good-bye, Mary. This time, it’s forever. Your words made me happy and set my mind at ease. You did not condemn me for dedicating those poems to you. On the contrary, you liked them. That means a lot to me. I promise I will give up alcohol, and the first chance I get, I will quit the deadly drug business. Otherwise, as I told you that day at the cafe, I will turn myself into the police.”
Emotionally charged words caught in his throat and came out choppy.
“Finally, I promise to forget you. That was the most important thing you asked of me. Good-bye, Mary.”
Kreshnik took Mary’s hand, bent down, and kissed it lightly. His burning lips filled her with a warmth that made her shudder. Kreshnik lifted his head and wanted to say something else, but his lips felt stiff. Mary, too, felt stiff. Her eyes followed Kreshnik as he left. He looked like a shadow swallowed up by the darkness which had descended around her.
Once Kreshnik opened the door and went into the house, he would disappear forever. Mary would never see him again. He would belong to another world, light years away, that not even the most powerful spaceship could reach. He would be dead to her.
Therefore, after he had opened the door and entered the house, not daring to look back, Mary did not do what the woman in the immigrant song had done. As her husband was leaving, she had said:
“I dreamed about you when I slept.
Your bag fell in the river.
I reached out my hand and gave it to you.
I did not say good-bye.”
Rather, Mary charged toward Kreshnik as if she feared he would be out of reach once he closed the door. Taken aback, he half turned and stared at her, unaware of what was happening. Mary threw her arms around him and squeezed him hard. Her fingers clawed at him like an animal of prey. Her strong grip made his back hurt.
From inside his car, the stocky man screwed up his lips when he saw Kreshnik and Mary with their arms around each other. He no longer needed to stay there for he had accomplished his mission.
Mary’s actions so surprised Kreshnik that he lost his balance and almost fell. But he managed to steady himself. While Mary remained almost suspended with her hands on his shoulders, wishing she could stay that way forever, Kreshnik took her in his arms and kissed her forehead, cheeks, and lips. Mary, as relaxed as a sleeping child, kissed him, too, and moaned with delirious pleasure. Then Kreshnik, his lips still glued to hers, carried her upstairs to his bedroom, and they fell into Kreshnik’s bed. Would they ever part?
Large teardrops fell from their eyes, and the two of them drowned in their intoxicating flood. The whole universe seemed to have shrunk to the size of that small room. Still, it was big enough for Kreshnik, Mary, and the wide, open spaces under heaven. (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, Part-27,
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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]
