Misinterpretation, page 18
“Do you live here?” I asked.
“Yes. For many years.” The man was vague about his past. “Had random jobs in the States. Here and there, you know? Came here to visit. Liked it. Stayed.”
There’s nothing in Berat but rocks, my mother often said. Why had the American moved halfway around the world? What if he was on America’s Most Wanted? Fugitive or not, the American turned out to be a skilled salesman, regaling us with stories of a local family he knew, whose grandmother, her three daughters, and four nieces labored day and night over handwoven bags—their only source of income. Billy ate it up.
“Young kids like you love them,” the Missouri man said, even though he was about the same age as Billy. “Aren’t they hip?”
We both left the store wearing crossbody bags. I had on the cabernet purse I’d bought earlier for Anna, while he wore the brown one the Missouri man had hypnotized him into purchasing. Outside the store he appeared uncertain.
“Why did I buy this?”
“Narrative marketing.”
“Well, it was only twenty dollars,” he said, comforting himself.
“Looks great,” I lied.
I was feeling sluggish. I wanted to go back to the hotel. Billy’s delight in the fridge magnets and other trinkets was a reminder of my earlier cowardice. His excitement was putting me in a sulking mood.
He went inside another shop. A wiry and watchful woman dressed in black stood up to greet us.
“It’s a Jewish museum,” she said. “Berat’s Jewish museum.”
We looked around at two empty rooms painted in white. Large frames with clusters of photographs covered the walls. The woman went on to explain that the museum had been the passion of her late husband, a retired teacher who had wanted to celebrate the religious harmony in Albania and the Jewish history in Berat. They had opened the museum with their savings, barely managing to pay rent, month after month. Later on, an Albanian businessman had invested, helping to keep it open.
I interpreted everything to Billy.
“Is she Jewish?” he asked.
The woman understood.
“No,” she told me in Albanian. “I’m Orthodox. And so was my husband.”
The laminated printed papers next to the framed photographs were awkwardly translated, as if by a student. Some detailed the history of a Sephardic branch of Jews from Spain who had arrived in Berat in 1520. Over six hundred Jews coming from Germany, Austria, and Spain had been sheltered and protected in Berat during World War II. After the communists came to power, those same Jews had helped some Albanians, who, fearing persecution, had escaped to Italy.
“Can you ask her,” Billy said, “what got her husband interested in opening a museum?”
“He had many Jewish friends,” she answered. “He did it in their honor. We’d gather around evenings and tell stories. It seemed a pity that nobody would know the stories after we were gone.”
Billy had more questions. I didn’t feel well. I excused myself and sat on a bench outside. He followed me.
“You feel hot,” he said, touching my forehead with his lips.
Fortunately, the hotel was only a few steps away. We picked up a thermometer from the lobby. I had a high fever. He ordered chamomile tea from the restaurant. He went to a pharmacy around the corner for medication. In the oil painting in front of me, a grandmother sat inside a room with two young children. They were looking out the window, at a parade of soldiers. The young boy was saluting the soldiers by raising his fist. Behind my closed eyelids, the soldiers’ parade appeared animated. They were young, wearing crisp green uniforms that were knitted to one another, as if a great big cloth with openings for their heads and arms kept them in place. They moved forward in unison.
Billy tapped my shoulder.
“Take one,” he said, handing me a round pill.
He lay next to me. He had to turn sideways so we could both fit in the single bed. My body ached. The strain of the past few days, dealing with my mother, leaving Tirana, Billy’s unexpected arrival, had finally gotten to me.
“Can you tell me about the bridge?” I asked. “Why did you leave the fellowship?”
He spoke in a low voice, the same voice he used to read me books before bed. Every sentence bore shadows, faces, colors. He had enjoyed the silence at first, the yellow lush expanse beyond the windows, the no-frills, two-room apartment without Wi-Fi. Up close, the bridge straddling both villages was a letdown, its wood rotting, its metal rusting. He’d crossed it only once or twice, his eyes taking in the river below, gushing and surging. From his window, the bridge, a crucial part of that peaceful pastoral landscape, had seemed so much more charming than in person. In the early mornings the bridge was a passage for livestock. Random pedestrians and bicyclists crossed it throughout the day, going from one village to the next. He never saw any cars; they weren’t allowed.
Each day after noon, there were no people on the bridge, until about three, when children from a nearby school raced to the other side. At night the bridge was a sad sight. Dense trees obscured the lights from the village across the river. A sole lamppost throbbed with a faint light above the empty fields.
But the absolute silence was only interesting that first week. He soon found himself incapable of doing anything except brooding and sulking as he moved between the two rooms of his spartan apartment. He’d go for long bike rides at times, but some days the wind made that difficult. Spending a weekend in a big city was necessary for his mental health, he realized.
One Friday night, the fellowship’s coordinator drove him to the nearest train station. Hours later he found himself wandering alone through a swarming city, having exhausted two bookstores and two cafés. The window of a psychic parlor caught his attention. Neon lights wrote psychic and welcome in italics. The aroma of incense sticks curled into his nostrils. It was dark inside, cozy, a room adorned with candles, spheres, Egyptian masks. A woman wearing a headscarf and speaking in mangled English welcomed him. That she was surprised to have a customer wasn’t lost on him. Maybe she could tell that he had gone in not hoping for revelations but company. She had been delightful, with all her mystic rituals, silly pretentions at clairvoyance, the stiletto nails that had nearly speared through his hand as she held it. It was an experience worth the admission fee.
Her tarot reading reminded him of a therapy session. Of course, he’d been careful not to reveal much about his life, but he had offered her a few crumbs to go on.
“Your relationship will not work out,” she had said. “You’ll marry soon after the breakup and get what you want—a child.”
“What did you say to that?” I asked. “That’s not true, is it?”
“I laughed at her predictions, of course. Still, I was sorry when it was over.”
After the reading, he’d gone into the bar next door. It was during his drinking binge that her prediction had stung. What he wanted was for his relationship to work out. He didn’t want a new relationship. Thinking back to our old arguments, his own behavior had puzzled him. In his lonely state a dinner party sounded thrilling, other people’s attention and needs more a gift than a burden. He’d been different years ago, hadn’t he? Every new person had seemed exciting, a whole new world. As he ordered drinks in that bar full of foreigners, he felt like a foreigner to his own self.
At some point Billy must have stopped speaking, but the images continued fusing with my earlier dream. Without much fanfare, the green soldiers picked us up from the bar. They would take Billy back to his apartment. My destination was a roaring fire under the Gorica Bridge. We marched in front of a crowd. Then one emotion took charge. The soldiers morphed into Rakan. The green cloth that kept them together turned into his bomber jacket. Two things occurred to me. One, the crowd was waiting to see my incineration. Two, Billy was watching everything from a window.
I followed Rakan obediently to the fire.
“But this is ridiculous,” I said, realizing that even though Billy was far away, he could still hear me. “They’re about to burn me. I should tell you the truth before that.”
Rakan pushed me toward the flames.
I was drenched in sweat when I woke up. Billy was in the next bed. He handed me a cup of water and touched my forehead. The early morning sun flickered through the shutters, drawing lines of light on an unfamiliar dresser. My clothes were no longer scattered about the room. He’d already packed. Our two suitcases were by the door. My shoes were by my bed.
“I packed all our stuff,” he said. “And got the address of a hospital in case you got sicker overnight. But your fever is down.”
“Did I speak in my sleep?”
“A lot.”
“What did I say?”
“It was in Albanian. Mos?”
“It means don’t.”
“Just a bad dream. How are you feeling?”
“Much better. We should go home.”
Soon after breakfast, we loaded the rental car. On our way out of town, we drove by Berat’s contemporary art museum. To my surprise, the door was open. It was Monday, the only day it was supposed to be closed.
• • •
AFTER TRAVELING THROUGH OTHER major European airports like Malpensa, Frankfurt, or de Gaulle, Tirana’s international airport, named after Mother Teresa, appeared modest, despite recent improvements. The other airports loomed larger, brilliant, percolating in a cosmopolitan sophistication ours was emulating. It was only on the way out, once a visitor had grown accustomed to the shoddy buildings of Tirana, that the spacious airport, with its slanted white beams, fern-colored glass walls, and gleaming, marble floors made an impression.
My mother, together with Neta, was accompanying Billy and me to the airport. They hardly ever went there. While praising the new airport building, they recalled the rambling, white-framed edifice that had stood there decades ago. Except for those departing, nobody else was allowed inside. Pressed against the glass like geckos toasting in the sun, people would gaze at their traveling relatives from the windows. It was the first taste of separation, a sampling of what it meant to have your family look at you through a screen.
Reassured that Billy and I had reconciled, my mother’s demeanor had changed. He was one of the few houseguests whose presence didn’t irritate her. She was livelier with him around. His high-ranking behind enjoyed the sofa without the blanket underneath. She let him treat her to that restaurant near our house. She went on extensive grocery shopping trips on his behalf. Still, traveling to the airport was unprecedented, an impulsive reaction, I suspected, to my uncle’s earlier announcement that he was coming along. If she and Neta came in the car with us, my mother had calculated, there would be no room for my uncle. The hatchback Fiat Billy had rented could accommodate only three passengers. Of course, she had underestimated my uncle, who took her deliberate sabotaging of his plans in stride.
“I’ll take the bus to the airport,” he declared. “And meet you there.”
There he was now, waiting for us in the check-in area, undaunted by my mother’s moods, strutting around in his suit and fedora hat, holding two white felt hats with black eagles, which he had purchased as souvenirs. He put one hat on Billy and kissed him on the forehead, then did the same to me.
“Wait, I have more,” he said, rummaging through a plastic bag. He had framed a photograph of the great-grandfather painting, which by now I associated with the toilet. He gave it to me. This time the great-grandfather looked brave, almost to the point of madness. But he must have been scared on that fateful day, I thought. Why did no one ever depict war heroes as they truly were, terrified, at least some of the time? For Billy, my uncle had brought a small poster with the Albanian flag and the words Life Is Better with an Albanian underneath.
Billy was a good sport about it. He thanked my uncle, gave him a hug.
In the check-in line, a man opened a suitcase and tried to squeeze an entire round hunk of kaçkavall cheese between jars of jam and branches of herbs.
“And don’t forget this,” the woman next to him said, pulling out of her fake Coach purse a lengthy sausage link.
“See, you should have taken that kaçkavall cheese with you,” said Neta, who had shown up that morning with a large piece for me to carry. “Other people are bringing stuff.”
“They sell it in Brooklyn,” I said, not wanting to carry it in my suitcase.
“I’m sure it’s not as good as the one I brought.”
As we strolled toward the security line, we engaged in random chitchat, pretending we weren’t about to say goodbye. Those last minutes were usually fraught with anxiety for me, but it was a temporary discomfort. We said goodbye. I hugged them all and gave my mother a kiss. I glanced back only when we were in line. They were still there, fixing me with their stares, my mother and Neta, in grays and blacks, and my uncle, in the middle, his arms around them both.
“I’m kind of sad to leave,” said Billy, a note of surprise sneaking into his voice.
“I know,” I said.
I’d heard that sentiment before from some of the foreigners I used to interpret for. Albania was a country that made you uneasy and tense, but alert and alive. It infuriated, exasperated, without apology or retribution, and yet one felt seen here, often even loved. The urge to escape its stifling confinement was tinged with unexpected melancholy—for foreigners and natives alike.
They stamped our passports. The visitors’ hallway gleamed from a distance. Where my relatives had been just seconds ago, now stood a cleaning woman in uniform. Stone-faced and somber, she was mopping the shining floor.
11.
AS THE TAXI APPROACHED OUR BUILDING, I LOOKED UP at the lighted row of our windows. A gust of wind was swaying our basil back and forth. One of the living room windows was open. The window was next to the fire escape on the side of our building. I had told Leyla not to leave it open when she left for the day. Did that mean she was home?
“Did you text her from the airport?” Billy asked, while we were unlocking the door.
“Of course. She didn’t write back.”
We called her name. Silence.
“She might be asleep,” Billy said. We looked around. On the dining table, she had left behind a cup of rooibos tea and half of a Milano cookie. The teacup was nearly full. The door to Billy’s study was closed. I pushed it open. The blankets and pillows she had used were folded on the futon. She had taken her backpack with her, but not her suitcase, which was open on the floor.
I gave her a call. It went straight to voicemail. Another blast of wind nearly flattened the basil tendrils. The incoming coldness made me shiver. It was a double-hung window, typical for Brooklyn. The bottom sash took serious effort to slide up and down. Leyla had often complained about the heat, but she wouldn’t have opened it that wide only to get some air. The opening was big enough for her to have climbed out. What was the purpose of fire escapes, anyway? Did anyone ever go down those stairs to run away from a fire? It was only an accessory, a makeshift patio, rusted and rickety, an eye blink away from an accident. I pictured her standing on the square landing in her shorts and tank top. She was laughing, holding a cigarette between her fingers. She lit it, then put it up to her lips. She sucked the smoke with a long intake while looking straight into my eyes through the thick glass.
Where are you, Leyla? I thought. I imagined her flinging the cigarette against the wall, leaning her head back. The wind was blowing through her hair, spreading it all around.
“Can you shut the window?” Billy asked. “It’s freezing in this room. Why did she leave it open like that?”
Billy had taken a quick shower and changed into his loungewear, a crewneck sweatshirt and shorts. It startled me that enough time had passed for him to do all that. I could have sworn I’d been standing there for only a few seconds.
“Did she get back to you?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“Odd that she left this cookie half eaten and the teacup full like this.”
The scattered food didn’t suggest to Billy that she had left in a hurry. She’d been careless, he was implying.
“I’m sure she’ll get back to you,” he said, as I tried her again. “Her stuff is still here.”
Instead of the voicemail, another message came on. This mailbox is full.
“Why don’t you take a shower?” Billy said. “It will relax you. Take off your coat. And shoes.”
I did what he said. In the bathroom, Leyla’s Suave conditioner and shampoo were still on the bathroom rack. She had gone and bought her own, although I had told her repeatedly she could use mine. The hair dryer was still plugged in, hanging by the cord. She had forgotten to put it back inside the drawer, as she’d always done before.
The warm shower, the smell of my peppermint shampoo, restored a sense of well-being. The steam covered the glass shower walls and blurred the rest of the bathroom. The dark line of the hair dryer’s cord was barely visible now. A streak of Billy’s shaving cream on the shower’s floor dissipated under water.
I had just gotten out of the shower when he called me from the living room.
“I found this letter,” he said. “Inside the flower vase.”
She had ripped a page out of Billy’s notebook, which he often forgot on the dining table, and had scrawled on it with a black marker. I didn’t dare touch the letter. Billy read it for me.
“I’ll be okay, L. Does she have other friends or relatives in the US?” he asked. “Maybe she went to stay with them.”
“Not that I know of.”
I’ll be okay. Future tense. Not reassuring in the least. What kind of plan could she have come up with, with no money and connections? Where did one go to report the disappearance of an undocumented immigrant? Of course, she might not even want me to. They might deport her the moment she was found.
“Strange, isn’t it?” said Billy. “That we can’t get hold of her.”
I mirrored his baffled expression, but that bit of acting made me feel embarrassed. I had no control over Leyla’s situation, nor could I manage to tell the truth. I suddenly found myself sitting on his lap, straddling my legs around his thighs. Only a second ago we’d been standing at some distance from each other—me, in a bath towel wrapped tightly around my body, and he, in that loungy outfit. But now the towel was on the floor. He was aroused, but his movements were slow; he was proceeding with caution. I moved with more resolve. I sneaked my fingers under and up his T-shirt. His skin, like mine, was still warm and slightly moist from the shower. Silky curls started above his belly and extended to his chest. I lowered his shorts. He brought his face close to mine and we kissed. He was relaxing now, but something about our closeness made me feel an unexpected terror. He was signing on to be hurt. Although we’d been together for years, I felt sure we were sinking into an unknown. He lifted his hips and pushed himself inside me. His movements were swift, his rhythm faster than usual. He came quickly. He wrapped me tightly in his arms. He nuzzled my neck. Beneath the sensations that surged inside, there was a warm, brief undercurrent. I focused on it, like at a focal point while trying to maintain balance in a one-legged yoga pose, or on every single step while climbing a mountain. The uncertainty over that compulsion to make love urgently—had I wanted him or a distraction?—seemed less important now. That feeling was sturdy and offered stability. I closed my eyes and wished for us to stay like that, but he looked around for Kleenex, then tried to meet my eyes, and my earlier anxieties crept forward.
