He’s about to say she’s not making a fool of herself, but stops.
‘Looking you up was a mistake, Patrick. I have no right to drag you into my mess, and now I’m panicking.’
He doesn’t say a word.
Hana gets up and sways towards the bureau. She notices he’s not looking at her, so as not to embarrass her. She lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. She turns around and offers her guest the pack. If she takes no notice of his disappointed expression, there may be some hope of recovering at least some of her dignity.
‘I shouldn’t have drunk anything,’ she murmurs, sitting back down. ‘I used to drink a lot. It was part of being a man, but you wouldn’t understand that.’
‘Yeah, right. I wouldn’t understand because I’m American? Because I’m a man? Explain yourself. I might understand if you tried a bit harder.’
‘It’s too much for me. It would be too much for you.’
‘Stop it. I’m fifty years old and I’ve been around a good while. You’re not dragging me anywhere, I already told you.’
‘Is it curiosity then? Is it that you feel you found a rare insect for your collection?’ Hana stops, but it’s too late.
She hears the sound of the train as it passes her house, metal screeching on metal, carriage after carriage. I’ve ruined everything, she thinks. Good thing too.
‘I’m sorry, Patrick. I really am.’
‘God, you really like saying sorry, don’t you?’
‘Are we having a fight?’
Hana feels shame riding up her throat. She bursts into tears and drops her head on the table. O’Connor doesn’t move from his seat. It’s like he isn’t even there.
When she manages to calm down, she can hardly get up. She goes into the bathroom and rinses her face, then buries her face in the towel and rubs until it hurts. She drags herself into the bedroom and picks up a big folder full of papers.
She goes back into the sitting room and gives the whole wad to O’Connor.
‘I owe you this at least,’ she says, without looking at him. ‘This is my story. When you’ve read it, you don’t need to give it back to me in person. You can mail it. That way I can make up for putting you in this embarrassing situation.’
In the weeks that follow Hana throws herself into her work at the bookstore with fierce determination. Lila gets the message that it’s best to give her space. Jonida is coming up to the end of her junior year at high school and has so many tests she has no time to come over.
Hana spends her evenings zapping aimlessly from one TV channel to another. She can’t read, and she doesn’t feel like her usual evening walks. In her overriding concern not to think about anything, one wish drills through her consciousness and hammers at her brain: that O’Connor mustn’t get in touch. If he vanishes off the face of this earth, she’ll be safe.
At the end of June, however, Hana receives a letter from Patrick, saying he’s read her story. The whole thing, over and over, every detail. He won’t be able to return her manuscript, though, until he gets back from a trip to the Baltics, where he’s planning to stay for three weeks. He doesn’t plan to send it back by mail. It’s clear, he writes, that their relationship isn’t going to take a normal course, but he needs and wants to give her the book back in person.
It’s not a book, Hana thinks. It’s just my life. It’s just a life; books are different.
‘I hope to see you when I get back,’ he writes, ‘and if this letter irritates you, deal with it.’
Hana gets up, puts the letter on the table, and goes out onto the balcony. Kids are playing in the square below, skipping or throwing balls, most speaking Spanish, others calling out in languages from around the world. Two young black mothers, holding newborn babies, keep an eye on their older kids, but Hana can’t see who belongs to whom.
A month later, when they finally meet, Hana wears no makeup, although the week before she had highlights put in her hair.
They agreed on a stroll along the Potomac without too much haggling and, as they take the well-trodden path, Patrick tells her about his trip. Rowboats and kayaks slip along the river beside them. Having returned only the day before, Patrick is still jet-lagged, yet the conversation flows smoothly. Eight weeks have passed since their last, disastrous meeting. The neutrality of their surroundings clears the air.
Then Patrick abruptly changes tack, asking about Albania, the mountains, women’s rights under the Kanun, and the dictatorship. She answers diligently, leaving nothing out.
They stop and sit on a bench, enjoying the river view and watching the Washingtonians thronging the park.
‘Why did you do it, Hana?’ Patrick asks, after a long silence. ‘You never say why, in any of your diaries. From what I understood, your uncle would never have made you marry against your will. What you write about him doesn’t explain why you took such a drastic decision.’
She looks him straight in the eye and answers honestly, not worrying about sounding melodramatic. Her gesture, she says, honored Gjergj Doda, and gave him a few more months of life and dignity. If he had forced her to marry, he would have known he had done something she hated and he would have died a sad man. And if she had disobeyed him, Gjergj Doda would have lost face. The mountains couldn’t allow it. When Hana became a man, Gjergj died brimming with pride.
It was a gesture of love; perhaps it was also a delusion, Hana concedes, smiling and shaking her head. To start with she felt like a character in a play, like the heroine — no, the hero — of a popular novel. Then the feeling wore off, she admits, but by then it was too late, of course. Anyway, what was the point of regretting things up there in the cursed mountains?
She looks over at two squirrels fighting over an acorn. Patrick absorbs her words slowly. Then he takes her hand and shifts his body instinctively closer to her. She rests her head on his shoulder.
‘Welcome to my life, Hana,’ he murmurs. ‘Whatever direction our friendship takes, you’re in my life, and you are most welcome.’
Without another word, Patrick takes her home. In the car she stares ahead and says nothing. At her door, he kisses her forehead and leaves.
Hana stands completely still. She looks within herself, and is filled with nostalgia and happiness. She is rediscovering the Hana that used to be, the Hana who sat beside Gjergj Doda in his last hours, the Hana she has spent all these years trying to suffocate and forget.
She held the dying man’s hand for four whole days.
‘He’s on his way out. He’s more dead than alive, can’t you see?’ a doctor from the nearest town had said. ‘Let him go. If you allow him to, he’ll pass away this evening.’
Gjergj resisted for four more days, gripping Hana’s hand desperately. It was his hand that held on, not him. He would have let go sooner, but his hand wouldn’t allow it.
When his grip loosened and his fingers went cold, she understood it was time to think about the funeral. She didn’t look at his face. She got up and went to the bathroom. Her bladder had been killing her for the last three hours, but she hadn’t dared take her hand away.
She squatted over the toilet and finally let go, staring at the wall in front of her. In the corner there was an ancient patch of mold; as a child she used to see the shapes of animals and people in it, as if it were a cloud.
She checked all the rooms in the kulla to see that everything was in order. Then she went back to her uncle’s deathbed. Now she looked at him. She kissed him on the forehead. His eyes were closed, but he still did not have the color of death. Soon his skin would start to grow darker, she had heard.
You’re free now, Hana, she told herself. You’re done for.