Novel: A Woman between Two Men – Part-8

The novel ‘A Woman between Two Men’, with an Albanian-American Theme, is authored by Carrie Hooper and Skifter Këllici

Chapter III

Night was falling. Mary and Kreshnik walked along the ocean. They could still hear the orchestra from the club they had just left. The lights from hotels and billboards shone in the distance. In the west, the last shadows of twilight resembled a cloth dotted with the faded red of the sunset.

“Your mother died right after she gave birth to you. My father died of cancer when I was only nine,” Mary said. “My mother never remarried. She devoted her life to me. She died two years ago. Among other things, she left me that necklace. It is very precious to me. That is why I am so grateful to you.”

She smiled again.

“Please, Mary, don’t say that anymore,” said Kreshnik with a smile.

They approached a summer food stand surrounded by a few tables.

“Would you like to get an ice cream?” Kreshnik asked.

“Why not?” Mary replied. “I think you want to, Nik. But this time I’m paying.”

“Next time, that is, if you want to see me again.”

“Of course I do. We met in the hospital where I work, and we reconnected here under extraordinary circumstances. Therefore, there is no reason why we shouldn’t see each other again.”

Mary’s words set Kreshnik’s face aglow.

They sat at a table. There was a flower garden behind the food stand where a group of young people, accompanied by a band and a singer, had started to dance. Later, the band took a break and the guitarist, a young man no more than 25 with a white face, short hair, and dark eyes, waved to Nik and walked over to his and Mary’s table.

“Where have you disappeared to, Nik?” asked the guitarist. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“It has been awhile,” said Nik. “Here we can forget all our troubles.”

“You’re right,” said the guitarist and turned to Mary.

“Mary,” said Nik, “this is Petrit, an Albanian who came here three years ago through the American lottery.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Mary, and rising part way, she shook Petrit’s hand. “Well, Nik, I see you have friends from Albania here in San Diego.”

“It’s unusual,” said Nik. “Most Albanians who came here after 1990, after the fall of Communism, preferred New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Detroit.”

“What about you, Petrit? Did Nik invite you to come all the way out here to San Diego?” asked Mary.

“Oh, no,” Petrit answered. “I met Nik here by chance. I won a guitar competition at a music school.”

“That’s wonderful!” Mary exclaimed. “One day, we’ll have the chance to see you in concert.”

“That’s my goal,” said Petrit with a smile.

“Hey, Petrit!” said the singer from far away, as if he were scolding him.

“Excuse me, but we have to continue our show,” said Petrit timidly.

As Petrit was leaving, Nik said to Mary, “He’s a talented kid. The song we just heard, he wrote that. He’s written others, too.”

“Really!” said Mary. “It was very nice.”

While Mary was speaking, the waiter came by.

“An ice cream and a tequila,” said Kreshnik.

“Nik, that’s your third one!” Mary scolded gently.

“I told you earlier at the club,” said Kreshnik, a little annoyed, “I have that tendency sometimes. I learned it from James, my adoptive father. Alcohol has been and still is his main source of food. When he drinks, he jokes, `In his famous monologue, Hamlet declames: `To be or not to be` while I babble, `To drink or not to drink, that is the question!`”

Mary and Nik burst out laughing. Nik quacked so loudly that the people around him turned and looked at him.

“You mentioned Hamlet. Do you like literature?” asked Mary.

“Very much. I started reading when I was little. I especially like poetry. Byron, Shelley, and Whitman are among my favorite poets.”

Kreshnik raised his glass again.

“And when literature inspires composers, as is the case, for instance, with Verdi who set Shakespeare’s “Othello” to music, then one understands the strong connection between words and music. Do you remember the famous aria of the moor of Venice when he kills Desdemona and, filled with remorse, sings over her corpse?”

He sang softly:

“Desdemona, Desdemona, ah, morta, morta! Do you remember?”

“Wow! You also like classical music!” she almost shouted with surprise.

“It comforts me late at night.”

A few minutes earlier, Kreshnik’s laughter had drawn the attention of the people around him and of Mary herself. Now, he spoke quietly and hesitantly. His tough features, his rough hair, and his eyebrows, parted, it seemed, by his overwhelming happiness, glowed with the warmth of his pleading eyes. Mary was stunned. It seemed to Kreshnik that she grabbed him by the arm and took him to another world, a peaceful world far from the noisy place in which they found themselves just then.

“Have you written anything?” Mary asked Kreshnik.

“I write poetry now and then,” he said embarrassed.

“Can you recite a poem for me?”

Kreshnik was taken aback by Mary’s question.

“Are you really curious?”

Mary nodded insistently and fixed her eyes on Kreshnik.

“Here’s a poem I wrote a few days ago:

“Memories are the ashes of our burned out life.

Therefore, with twisted hearts

We stir them

With the hope we will kindle a tiny spark

That will warm our cold hearts, if only a little.”

Kreshnik closed his eyes. As he recited his poem, it seemed to Mary that the rhythm of the verses made his rough face even more beautiful. His disheveled hair covered the faint glow of his cheeks.

“Yes, Mary, those are my memories,” Kreshnik almost sobbed. Again he swallowed his tequila in one gulp.

“But no matter how hard I try, I can’t find even a spark to warm my spirit.”

Mary imagined Kreshnik’s terrible childhood which had inspired those verses, but she did not dare ask him about them. Besides, she understood all too well that Kreshnik did not get drunk from tequila but from pain. She knew that sorrow gave rise to those kinds of poems, but she had never imagined that a wildly handsome young man could have written that kind of poem.

As if wanting to change the subject, Mary said to Kreshnik, “That was a really powerful poem. Are you going to college for art or literature?”

“How could I go to college when I barely made it through high school? After you finished high school, you went to nursing school. Maybe you want to continue your studies at a university.”

“How did you know that?”

“I don’t know anything, but I’m sure you want to continue your studies.”

“I plan to.”

“So why are you surprised I know a little about everything and nothing more?”

“Because if you went to college, you could make a name for yourself as an artist or a writer.”

“You are the first person who has told me that,” he said sadly.

“Someone else besides me must have told you that. But that depends on who you live with and who you work with.”

Kreshnik bowed his head and sighed.

“I didn’t offend you, did I?” asked Mary.

“No. What you said is true.”

“I’m going to call Wilma again,” said Mary in order to break the silence that had followed.

In the meantime, Ralph Kallagan and his partner, Scott Norton, got out of the car. Scott, an African-American, was younger than Ralph. Wilma waited for them in the lobby of the hotel.

“Thank God nothing happened to you!” she said.

“Anything could have happened,” said Ralph. “I told you before, it was a fight between drunks.”

“The bottle takes over their minds,” added Scott.

“I’m sorry Violet didn’t come,” Wilma said to Scott.

“Work comes first, Wilma,” said Scott. “Violet’s manager was up to his ears in work. She couldn’t leave him in the lurch.”

“Where’s Mary?” asked Ralph.

“She’s probably on her way back from the silver shop,” said Wilma. “Let me call her.”

“Hi, Wilma. I’m in a flower garden with a friend I haven’t seen for a long time,” said Mary, somewhat hesitantly. She noticed a twisted line on Kreshnik’s forehead.

“Okay then. Ralph, our friend, Scott, and I will wait for you at the hotel.”

Mary hung up the phone. Kreshnik looked a little worried.

“You looked like you didn’t feel well when I was talking to Wilma on the phone,” said Mary.

Kreshnik sighed and lowered his eyes.

“I had a bad experience that involved Wilma and Ralph,” he said. “It happened at a restaurant. It was all my fault. Apparently I had had a lot to drink that night. I made a raucous which bothered the people around me. Unfortunately, I didn’t see Ralph or Wilma because they were sitting at a table behind a column.”

“Did they see you?”

“I don’t know how it happened, but two policemen grabbed my arms and threw me out of the restaurant. I think Ralph told them to come. He is one of the strictest police chiefs in San Diego. He has it in for everybody. That’s why I don’t want to see him or Wilma. I don’t think they’ve forgotten my folly.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Nik. Anyone could get drunk and do something stupid. Maybe Ralph’s forgotten the incident by now.”

“But there’s another incident I don’t think he’s forgotten just as I will never forget it. It has to do with my father’s death.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“No, Mary. Maybe next time.”

“What is Kreshnik hiding about his father’s death?” Mary thought. But she did not want to force the issue.

When Kreshnik noticed his glass was empty, he rose to order another tequila, but Mary gripped his arm.

“Please, you’ve had enough,” she pleaded.

Kreshnik remained seated.

As if she feared that Kreshnik would become intoxicated if he drank anymore, she looked toward the dance floor. A few couples, after some fast dances, danced a tango. Then Kreshnik did what he had hesitated to do at the club. He took Mary by the hand, and the two of them hurried onto the dance floor where a crowd of spectators had gathered. Kreshnik had not expected that. He was shocked.

He put one hand on Mary’s thin waist and with his other hand, he grasped Mary’s hand. He could easily have pulled her close to him. But he didn’t.

The young, curious onlookers watched Mary and Kreshnik dance. No one knew them. They were older than everyone else. Mary realized it would not be long until she found out the answer to her question: What was Kreshnik hiding about his father’s death? (Continues)

Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5,  Part-6, Part-7, 

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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]