The novel ‘A Woman between Two Men’, with an Albanian-American Theme, is authored by Carrie Hooper and Skifter Këllici
Mary wanted to speak, but words failed her. Kreshnik, too, remained silent. He looked at her as if in a frenzy. He could not believe she was really his. After he kissed her, he lifted his head and looked around as if in a dream. Then, after touching her forehead and cheek, the two resumed their passionate kissing. Afterwards, exhausted, Kreshnik lay on top of Mary, his eyes wide and his lips parted. He did not know what to do, or, more exact, if he should do something else. He did not dare to make the next move. But Mary took the lead, and she and Kreshnik enjoyed a night of pleasure.
When Mary awoke and saw the sun’s golden rays streaming through the dark curtains of a half-open window, she was surprised to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings. Was she in a house or a hotel where she had happened to spend the night alone or with Charlie?
She looked around, still unaccustomed to the light, and reached her hand toward her left, as she sometimes did to caress Charlie or to shake him gently awake so he wouldn’t be late for work. However, her fingers encountered someone else.
Mary got up quickly, and when she realized the man lying beside her was not Charlie, she almost cried out with fright. A young man, naked like her, slept next to her, his head buried in the white pillow, his hand extended toward her as if he wanted to capture her and never let her go. Mary closed her eyes as if she wanted to relive the events of a few hours ago, unexpected and unplanned, but fabulous. She had given herself to this young man, Kreshnik. How had that happened? Perhaps he had kidnapped and raped her, or maybe he had seduced her after getting her drunk. No, neither of those things had happened.
Mary had given herself to Kreshnik because she loved him. A woman who loves consents to that act without hesitation or fear, even if she encounters many obstacles along the way. Mary had told Kreshnik a few hours earlier at that lonely cafe that physical love expresses repressed spiritual love. Now she had experienced that.
She had never imagined things would go this far. A few weeks earlier, she had decided to meet Kreshnik to apologize for the ugly scene outside of Crystal and had asked Wilma for her advice. After Mary had apologized to Kreshnik, she had advised him to stay away from her. He had left her alone and would have continued to do so. As the weeks passed, her memories of that tough-looking young man had begun to fade, and she had felt less of an urge to see him. In the meantime, she had tried to see Charlie more often.
Then, a collection of poems, published in a literary magazine had struck her like a bolt of lightning and had revived repressed memories like air that explodes under pressure. What if she had not read those poems, especially the one dedicated to her? What if, after having read them, she had not rushed to the phone to call Kreshnik to find out if, in fact, she had inspired him to write a poem for her? What if Kreshnik’s caller ID had not registered the address of the hospital from which Mary had called him? Life would have gone on, and with time, Kreshnik’s image would have faded from Mary’s consciousness like a rain-soaked water color.
As if that had not been enough, her worst fears had come true when the police had started their raids and had begun arresting drug traffickers. That was why Mary had wanted to find Kreshnik even if that meant going to his house, to warn him to keep his eyes open to avoid capture by the police.
But why had Mary done that? Kreshnik was not a relative. He was just a young man she had happened to meet at the hospital. In the beginning, his behavior had not impressed her, but later, she had understood how sensitive he was. Indeed, he had come back and had apologized for his rudeness. The rest was history.
But why, after a friendly separation, had Mary rushed to meet Kreshnik who, although he had not been caught, was wanted for a crime? Without a doubt, the police would have praised and rewarded Mary for her courage if she had turned him in. She would have been doing her civic duty. She certainly should not have helped him and should not have become a partner in crime. She, too, could face punishment.
Kreshnik needed to pay for his crime. Mary could feel sorry for the handsome youth who wrote poetry, but that was all.
In reality, she had acted differently. The previous night, after she had left the hospital, she had thought about going to Kreshnik’s house to tell him about the awful things that could happen to him. Then, unexpectedly, she had found herself face to face with him. Wonderful! During their encounter, she had said what had needed to be said. After that, she should have left. After all, she had asked him to leave, not the other way around. But she had done the opposite. She had invited him to a cafe where he had declamed verses from Chopin to Kadare, that great Albanian author.
Up until then, although Mary had let things go too far, nothing truly awful had happened. But when Kreshnik told Mary he would go home in a taxi, why had she told him she would take him home? A parting word and a handshake would have sufficed. One could forgive that mistake. But when Kreshnik and Mary arrived at his house, and he, upon leaving, expressed his gratitude to her, swore he would keep his promises, and said he would try to forget her, why had she not left?
Why had she followed him with her eyes, rushed toward him, and grabbed him? She had ended up in that room, naked like the youth who lay beside her.
Mary had based her actions on a declaration she had made to herself once: A woman in love is prepared to make sacrifices. She had done so without a second thought.
She had felt happy when she and Kreshnik were immersed in the throws of passion and love, but now she was worried. Once again, she thought she saw Charlie’s somber face. He said, “Bitch, whore! I saw you that day, following your lover! Now I saw you strip him naked and prostitute yourself with him!”
Mary panicked at these thoughts. She gathered up her underclothes, which were scattered everywhere, and put them on along with her skirt and blouse. She grabbed her bag and prepared to escape from there once and for all.
She looked at Kreshnik as he slept, wrapped, perhaps, in pleasant dreams. He alone was responsible for this mess. The turmoil Mary felt tightened her lips. She grabbed a small bronze statue of Beethoven off the dresser in order to beat this fraud and classical music lover to death and make him disappear as if by magic. She would put the statue in her bag to get rid of all traces of it.
Who would find out about this murder?
But when she saw Kreshnik lying there, breathing gently, his eyes closed, perhaps dreaming of her, Mary collapsed inside and gasped. She wanted to throw herself at him, kiss him, and apologize for her dark thoughts, but she remained frozen beside the bed. Later, she took a small notepad out of her bag, tiptoed to a table with a bookcase, cds, and photographs of Classical composers, where Kreshnik apparently read and wrote, bent over the table, and wrote: “What happened between us was only an illusion. Forget I ever existed. I will forget you. Mary.”
She put the note where Kreshnik would see it, left the house, and ran to her car.
But she had failed to notice two eyes watching her from the first floor window. It was James, who shook his head like a shabby-looking lover.
Kreshnik was devastated when he read Mary’s note. As he read and reread those few lines, he heard her now distant voice. He dressed, ran down the stairs, and bolted out the door. He knew his efforts were in vain, that she had left some time ago.
He saw the place where she had parked her car the previous night and recalled the moment he had bent down, kissed her hand, and said good-bye. Then, he had opened the back door, but before he could turn to go into the house, he had felt Mary’s arms tighten around him. Then…
He was even more devastated. It seemed that Mary, in her cold, unfeeling note, blamed him for everything that had happened. But he had not asked anything of her. He certainly had not asked her to order him around. On the contrary, she was the one who had offered to take him home. Then, just as Virgil had taken Dante from hell to Purgatory to Paradise, so, too, Mary had taken Kreshnik to their own small paradise. Later, however, she had cast him into hell with her cruel note and had disappeared like the invisible man in the novel by Wells with the same title. As he mulled over these troubling thoughts, he heard James come to the door and say, “You took that whore!” As always, he showed his missing teeth when he spoke.
Kreshnik came to, and his face darkened at James’ words.
“How dare you say such a thing!” he shouted.
“Am I beating a dead horse? She spent the night with you and now that you have satisfied her, she will go and lick the man she is going to marry. Isn’t that prostitution?”
Kreshnik clenched his jaws and did not answer.
“I saw her leaving the house. Her legs were shaking. I said to myself, `Congratulations, Nik. You were bold as I was once with my wenches.`
“I’ve told you a hundred times. She’s not a wench.”
“If she’s not a wench, why is she trying out your tool? Is it better than the other guy’s?”
“Cut the crap!” Kreshnik threatened.
During this exchange, he and James had gone into the living room and had sat down. Later, Kreshnik got up, and, not knowing how to release his anger, he grabbed a beautiful vase off the dresser and threw it as hard as he could against the wall. It shattered into smithereens.
“You disrespected me because of that witch, and you have become more beastly than the beasts of the forest! Last night, she was in seventh heaven, and her moans kept me awake. I’m ashamed of you. I raised you as my own son. Meanwhile, you begged and pleaded with her on bended knee. Congratulations!”
With those words, Kreshnik lowered his head, went up to his room, stood in shock in front of his bed, and sighed. The sheets were all askew, and their whiteness hurt his eyes. Had he really lain with Mary and made love with her in that bed? Had they really melted into one body, one heart, and one soul? Kreshnik sat on the edge of the bed, touched the blankets, still warm with her warmth, held them to his chest, wrapped himself in them as if to warm himself, and inhaled their scent. He could smell her body, her face, her neck, her breasts, and her thighs which he had kissed and caressed with his fiery hands. He saw a small lock of hair between the covers and held it between his fingers as if he feared touching it would ignite a flame that would consume it and turn it to ashes. Still holding it with his fingertips, he lifted it up, carried it to the dresser, and put it between the pages of a book of poetry.
That lock of hair was the one remaining memory of Kreshnik and Mary’s one and only night together, volatile like transparent steam. The note, still lying on the table, was the final witness of a dying love which had never really been born. Kreshnik collapsed onto the bed, covered his head with his hands, and sobbed. (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, Part-28,
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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]
