‘Is it because of the American that today you’re in a good mood?’ Hana asks her.
‘He called last night. He’s coming to Tirana. Can you believe it? Next week. How did you guess?’
Hana laughs. She takes the potatoes out of the clean cloth she wrapped them in to keep warm. They put all the food on the table and Blerta uncorks the bottle of Merlot.
‘I can’t believe he’s really coming. I hardly dare believe anything.’
‘Nobody comes to this shit-hole of a country for some stupid love affair. This time he must have thought about things a little more deeply.’
‘Don’t say anything. Once bitten, twice shy!’
They sit with their glasses filled.
‘So here’s to your health … to the man of the house!’ Blerta toasts.
Hana pokes her nose into the glass and sniffs the scent of the wine. She looks at her friend.
‘What’s sex like?’ she asks, point blank.
Blerta, who has her glass held up at eye level, lowers it so that she can look at Hana.
‘You’ve lived with a man. Tell me, what’s it like?’
Blerta tries to focus on the question, but she can’t find a good answer and tells Hana the question is too big.
‘Just tell me what it’s like,’ Hana insists. ‘I mean, on a range from nothing special to the traditional disappointment of Albanian women, and then to the newfound sexual freedom in the cities, how important is sex in everyday life? For someone like you, Blerta, for example. How important is it?’
Blerta takes a sip of her wine.
‘Sex is great. In my experience it’s great,’ she says, perfectly naturally.
‘So it’s worth trying, huh?’
‘Yes, Hana, it’s worth trying.’
‘Great!’ Hana sighs.
December 2002
On the pinboard hanging in the kitchen, muddled in with shopping lists and to-do lists, there is a small piece of paper with a reminder written on it: ‘Call Patrick O’Connor!’ It has been there for months, the color fading over time.
Hana wrote it, that’s for sure, but the idea seemed crazy so she never called. She only allows herself to do sensible things, and calling O’Connor is not sensible. But she still thinks about it. She’s thought about it quite a lot. Especially since Lila started casually introducing her first to a colleague, then to a friend of Shtjefën’s, then again to a distant relative of Pal’s who lives in Ohio. After these clumsy attempts at matchmaking, Hana threatened to cut Lila out of her life if she didn’t back off and stop playing the go-between. She didn’t come all the way to the US to end up married to some Good Samaritan. Lila was upset, but she got the message and stopped.
In the early days, thinking about O’Connor had upset her, but these days it doesn’t. She wants to meet someone who understands what she has been through, and until now she hasn’t met a man she feels at ease with. Anyway, she enjoys thinking about him. She remembers his hands. She remembers his smell when they sat together on the Zurich — Washington flight. In a fleeting moment of total sincerity she even admits that maybe she dares to think about him precisely because he’s unreachable. Never mind. It’s just a series of maybes. That’s the point. Maybe she hasn’t forgotten him because there’s no one else to remember. Maybe the solitude of this past year has been so good for her that it has cleared the way for her to think about the unattainable.
This December day, however, everything seems possible. She’s succeeded in getting a job as a salesperson in a big, prestigious bookstore. If that’s possible, all the rest is possible, reasonable even — including making a phone call to Patrick O’Connor. She’ll be working in the bookstore for three months, on a maternity leave substitution. Then it’s up in the air.
Jonida has come over to Hana’s place to give her a face scrub. Before getting started she puts Coldplay on at full volume and tells her aunt they’re her favorite group and that if she doesn’t think they’re the best she’ll have to learn to like them.
While Jonida puts an exfoliating gel on Hana’s face, Hana thinks back over the events of the last few weeks. The most important, of course, was getting her new job. And it wasn’t even that difficult. She saw the ad on the door of the bookstore and called Jonida straight away to tell her about it. As if it were a matter of national interest, Jonida dictated her strategy: Hana was to go in right away and ask for the manager before they hired someone else. Hana protested that they might already have found someone.
‘They would have taken the notice off the door, duh!’ Jonida teased. ‘Or are you scared of trying? Don’t tell me you’re pissing yourself …’
Hana had put down the phone and gone into the bookstore. Two hours later she was hired. The wages weren’t great but she had a thirty percent discount on all the books. She thanked the manager with tears in her eyes.
Lila gave her an earful about leaving the security of the parking lot. But then she relented and conveyed her best wishes along with the gift of a new linen pants suit.
Hana is due to start work immediately after the winter break, on January 2. Jonida is staying over for the weekend, deeply committed in her improvised role as Hana’s beautician.
‘How about changing the music?’ Hana asks timidly.
Her niece looks daggers at her. ‘Oh come on! You’re not saying you’re not into Coldplay?’
‘Not really.’
‘You totally don’t understand a thing.’
‘Ok, ok, but don’t you have anything softer?’
‘Well, just by chance I have some U2 here. You’ll like them ’cause they’re, like, old.’
Jonida wipes away the gel and spreads a thick layer of hydrating face mask over Hana’s face. She goes and changes the track and warns Hana they will also need a makeup and cosmetics session. Hana protests.
‘I’m not asking your permission,’ Jonida ripostes. ‘You’ve been here for, like, more than a year, and your whole life a man has never been near you. Now you have this great job, and contact with the public, you’ll totally meet new people. So …’
Hana stretches. She’s put on a few pounds, making her rounder and more feminine. Her hair has grown down to her shoulders; it’s well cut and she looks gamine.
‘I don’t have a man, but I do have a working computer,’ Hana argues. ‘And I have some male friends I sometimes go out and have a drink with after work.’
‘Yeah, right. Like Jack at the parking lot!’ Jonida laughs.
‘Of course.’
‘But he’s such a douche, and he has so many problems.’
Hana takes her niece’s comments badly. ‘I don’t care if Jack’s a douche or if he has problems. He’s a dad, with two little kids and an alcoholic ex-wife. So what? He’s a good person. He’s straightforward and grounded.’
‘Sorry,’ Jonida apologizes. ‘I didn’t mean to offend anyone.’
‘You’re so cynical, you young people. Can you get this stuff off my face?’
U2 ricochet around the room with a song called ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday.’ Jonida takes a cotton-wool pad and wipes the excess cream from Hana’s face. She suddenly turns serious. She wants to say something but gives up, scratches her chin and puts the dirty pad down on the kitchen table.
‘My words came out all wrong,’ she says, going over to the washbasin. She apologizes again. ‘It’s because I’m worried about you. After a whole year you know nothing about all that stuff. I mean …’
Hana opens the fridge and takes out a carton of juice.
‘You don’t seem to understand that I’m in no hurry.’
‘Jeez, Hana, you’re so boring! You’re always saying the same thing.’