The bookstore café is beginning to empty and the bartenders at the coffee machine are no longer calling out orders.
‘What if we get out of here?’ O’Connor proposes. ‘We could meet for dinner somewhere. You tell me where we can meet and—’
‘I’ve made a mess,’ Hana says. ‘I wanted to see if someone who isn’t Albanian can understand my story, but now I’m—’
‘Regretting it,’ O’Connor says, completing her sentence and laughing.
‘Yes, regretting it.’
‘Well, you did the right thing to call me,’ he says, still trying to reassure her. ‘But if you don’t feel up to it … I won’t insist. It’s weird for me too. Things like this don’t happen every day.’
They leave the café and the bookstore. Hana tells him that she came by bus that morning because her car is at the garage for an oil change. O’Connor offers her a lift, which she accepts so as not to be rude.
‘My apartment is very modest and I don’t feel comfortable letting you see it,’ she hurries to add.
O’Connor assures her he has no intention of making her feel uncomfortable, and laughs again, shaking his head incredulously.
They climb into his Chrysler 300M and drive in silence until they get to Halpine, where Hana tells him to take a right.
‘Right,’ she says, trying to sound confident. ‘I’ll take a shower, put on the most elegant clothes I own and we’ll go out to dinner. Is eight o’clock all right for you?’
The restaurant they have chosen is unpretentious and cozy. Sitting opposite him, she grins sheepishly and asks him to choose for her. O’Connor orders two prime ribs, jacket potatoes with sour cream, and green salad.
She stares out of the window. It’s a beautiful May evening and there is blossom on the trees. She doesn’t deserve this, she thinks. She doesn’t know how to reconcile O’Connor, the grief she feels within her and can’t expiate, and this incredible view.
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ she opens.
For the first time, the thought flicks through her mind that maybe with Jack it would have been easier. She would have told him the story little by little, as if he were a kid in elementary school, and Jack would have said, ‘No way!’ He would have said he couldn’t believe such a weird story. He would have said, ‘Cool!’ He would have said, ‘You don’t say?’ But she never had the guts to tell Jack anything, maybe because he already has enough problems of his own, and he’s black and their worlds seem so far apart. Hana always felt her past would be too difficult for him to grasp. But she still feels guilty every time she thinks about Jack, and every time she runs into him.
Patrick O’Connor smiles, a little impatiently. Hana starts telling him about Gjergj, Katrina, her parents. She tells him again what a sworn virgin is, and goes through the various reasons why a woman might decide to become a man and give up any chance of life with a partner. As she finishes she flashes a smile at O’Connor, and tries to look as if what she has said is the most natural thing in the world.
The waiter, too chatty and obsequious for her taste, cracks a few stupid jokes as he brings their food to the table.
Now it’s O’Connor’s turn to be lost in thought. He cuts his meat slowly, mumbling ‘Enjoy your meal’ without looking at her. They eat in silence. She leaves half her ribs on her plate, and hardly touches her jacket potato. He finishes everything with evident pleasure.
‘The fact that you’re a woman who became a man … ’ O’Connor starts, setting his knife and fork straight on his plate. Hana puts her napkin down, then picks it up again and puts it on her lap. ‘It’s striking … Of course I’m curious, there’s no doubt about that … and you know it too, right? Or you wouldn’t have called me. A “sworn virgin.” It’s fascinating, yes.’
She tries to smile naturally, but doesn’t feel she’s succeeding. God, Americans are so direct, she thinks. She likes this quality but at the same time finds it hard to deal with.
‘Well, here I am, a living example, maybe the only one who has ever left the country. The others are all in Albania.’
She concentrates her attention on Patrick’s hands. They’re tanned. She asks him if he does any sport. He tells her about a little sailboat he shares with a friend and keeps in Chesapeake Bay.
She thinks that if she can make it to the end of this dinner without committing any major faux pas it’ll be a miracle. O’Connor starts telling her a little more about himself. He lives alone. He makes a living as a freelance journalist for three print newspapers. He owns an apartment on Massachusetts Avenue. His ex-wife lives in Geneva and they are on good terms. No kids. No sentimental attachments since quite a while back. Has a hard time maintaining relationships owing to his job, which takes him around the world. A classic example of emotional failure, if that helps Hana feel more at ease.
She smiles shyly. She can see that his emotions are also playing tricks on him, and she’s relieved. They start on the wine, which they had completely forgotten about.
‘I thought you were gay, back when we were on the plane,’ O’Connor confesses. ‘Thanks for placing your trust in me.’
Hana sips her wine cautiously.
‘Seriously, thanks. I must get hold of the Kanun and read it.’
Silence.
‘You can read my story if you want,’ Hana says.
O’Connor loosens his tie.
‘In the years I lived as a man I kept a diary. I’ve rewritten it here in my terrible English and my niece has corrected it — well, partly corrected it — so people can understand it.’
‘Did you write any more poems?’
‘I’ve been too busy taking care of myself,’ she answers warily.
He lifts his arms, cocks his head to one side and smiles candidly.
‘It’s weird,’ he says. ‘I was sure I’d met people with the most tragic and unique stories. I have always traveled to their countries to seek them out: Nicaragua, Argentina, Lebanon, Pakistan, Bosnia. Yet now I’m here with you and I’ve just heard the most incredible story. You go around the world digging out stories and the real gem is sitting there right next to you. No cliché has ever been more true.’
He stops and thinks for a moment, then asks Hana about her family in Rockville. She tells him about Lila, Shtjefën, and especially about Jonida. She describes them in minute detail, and she tells him about how scared she is now that she has to manage her everyday life on her own after the months she spent at their house. A mountain girl like me, who’d never even seen a credit card, she tells him; she wasn’t so sure she’d succeed.
She goes back to talk about Jonida, adding more stories. He listens attentively. Or maybe he’s just developed the art of looking interested while his mind wanders over more distant pastures. He is a journalist, after all, Hana thinks.
‘I’m talking too much, sorry.’
He takes her hand, as if to reassure her, and tightens his grip momentarily.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m still bowled over.’
He suggests going out for a short walk. Hana is embarrassed to say no. She’s not used to this kind of thing, and it would be really nice to be taken home, she’s pretty tired.
O’Connor gestures for the bill and then turns towards Hana, looking at her softly.
‘I always take one step at a time,’ Hana says. ‘I don’t know if you understand.’
‘I’ll take you home. But don’t say we won’t see one another again. I have a list of questions this long to ask you.’
‘Slowly does it,’ she says. ‘I need time. Anyway, I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t expect any friendship. This meeting might be enough for me.’
‘If we can’t get away from this idea of obligation,’ Patrick says, ‘then we may as well forget the whole thing. All I’m offering is my pleasure in seeing you again, and understanding your story. It’s up to you.’