The Mister

“I—”

“Don’t. Please.” His expression is serious.

He’s generous. Once again Alessia wonders what he does for a living. He has the big apartment, two cars. He organized the security for Magda. Is he a composer? Do composers make a lot of money in England? She doesn’t know.

“I can see your brain working from here. What is it? Ask me? I don’t bite,” Maxim says.

“I want to know what is your job.”

“What I do for a living?” Maxim smiles.

“Are you a composer?”

He laughs. “Sometimes.”

“I thought that’s what you did. I liked your pieces.”

“You did?” His smile broadens, but he looks a little embarrassed. “You speak very good English,” he says.

“Do you think so?” Alessia flushes at the unexpected compliment.

“Yes, I do.”

“My grandmother was English.”

“Oh. Well, that explains it. What was she doing in Albania?”

“She visited in the 1960s with her friend Joan, who is Magda’s mother. As children Magda and my mother sent letters and became friends. They live in different countries but have remained very good friends, though they have never met.”

“Never?”

“No. Though my mother would like to, one day.”

“Two ham-and-cheese paninis,” the barista says, interrupting them.

“Thanks.” Maxim accepts the bag. “Let’s go. You can tell me more in the car,” he says to Alessia as he picks up his coffee. “Bring your drink.” Alessia follows him out of the Starbucks, sticking close.

In the car Maxim downs his espresso, puts the empty cup in the cup holder, and, removing half of his panini from its paper wrapper, takes an enormous bite.

Its appetizing aroma fills the car.

“Hmm,” Maxim murmurs in exaggerated appreciation. As he chews, he throws Alessia a sideways look. She stares at his mouth and licks her lips.

“Want some?” he asks.

She nods.

“Here, help yourself.” He passes her the second panini, then starts the car, a smirk on his face. Alessia allows herself a cautious bite of the sandwich. A string of melted cheese sticks to her lips. She uses her fingers to scoop it into her mouth and licks her fingers. Realizing how ravenous she is, she takes another bite. It’s delicious.

“Better?” Maxim asks, his voice low.

Alessia grins. “You are cunning like the wolf.”

“Cunning is my middle name,” he says, looking pleased with himself, and Alessia can’t help but laugh.

* * *

Boy, that’s a good sound.

At the petrol station, I pull up beside the high-octane pump. “This won’t take a minute. Eat.” I grin and get out of the car. But Alessia scrambles out after me, clutching her panini, and comes to stand beside me at the pump.

“Miss me already?” I quip, trying to lighten the mood. Her lips curl in the semblance of a smile, but her eyes scour our surroundings. She’s apprehensive, and this place is making her more anxious. I fill the tank.

“It is expensive!” Alessia exclaims when she sees the cost.

“Yes, I suppose it is.” And I realize I’ve never paid attention to how much fuel costs. I’ve never had to. “Come on, let’s go pay.”

In the queue for the register, Alessia stands beside me, taking the occasional bite of her sandwich and gazing at the shelves in what looks like wonder.

“Do you want anything? Magazine? A snack? Something sweet?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “There is so much to buy here.”

I look around. Everything seems so commonplace to me. “Don’t you have shops in Albania?” I tease.

She purses her lips. “Of course. In Kukës there are many shops, but not like this.”

“Oh?”

“This is tidy and ordered. Very neat. Pathological.”

I grin. “Pathologically tidy?”

“Yes. The opposite of you.”

I laugh. “The shops aren’t tidy in Albania?”

“Not in Kukës. Not like this.”

At the register I slide my credit card into the chip and PIN machine, conscious that she’s watching my every move.

“Your card is magic,” Alessia says.

“Magic?” And I have to agree with her. It is magic. I’ve done nothing to earn the money that’s paying for the petrol. My wealth is merely an accident of birth.

“Yes,” I murmur. “Magic.”

Back at the car, we climb in, and I wait before pressing the ignition.

“What?” Alessia asks.

“Seat belt.”

“I forget. It’s like the nodding and the shaking.”

What is this?

“In Albania we shake our head to say yes, and we nod to say no,” she explains.

“Wow. That must be confusing.”

“Your way is confusing. Magda and Michal had to teach me.”

Clutching the other half of my panini, I start the car and cruise down the slip road back onto the M5.

So she mixes up yes and no? I wonder if I should review any of our previous conversations, given this new information.

“Where are we going?” Alessia asks, staring ahead into the dark night.

“My family has a place in Cornwall. It’s another three hours or so.”

“It is a long way.”

“From London? Yes.”

She takes a sip of her hot chocolate.

“Tell me about your home,” I say.

“Kukës? It’s a small town. Nothing much happens….It’s…um…what is the word? Alone?”

“Isolated?”

“Yes. Isolated. And…rural.” She shrugs and seems reluctant to say more.

“Cornwall is rural. You’ll see. Earlier you were telling me about your grandmother.”

She smiles. She seems happier to talk about her grandmother. This is what I’d envisaged when I hatched our escape plan this afternoon, an easy and relaxed conversation where I find out more about her. I settle back in my seat and give her an expectant look.

“My grandmother and her friend Joan came to Albania as missionaries.”

“Missionaries? In Europe?”

“Yes. The Communists banned religion. Albania was the first atheist nation.”

“Oh. I had no idea.”

“She came to help the Catholics. She smuggled books into Albania from Kosovo. Bibles. You know. What she did, it was dangerous. She met an Albanian man and—” She pauses, and her face softens. “They fell in love. And…how do you say it? The rest is history.”

“Dangerous?” I asked.

“Yes. She has many hair-stand-up stories.”

“Hair-stand-up?” I smile. “I think you mean hair-raising.”

She grins. “Hair-raising.”

“And Magda’s mother?”

“She moved on to Poland as a missionary and married a Polish man,” she says, as if this is obvious. “They were the best of friends. And their daughters became the best of friends.”

“And that’s why you came to Magda’s when you escaped.”

“Yes. She has been a good friend to me.”

“I’m glad you’ve had someone.”

And now you have me.

“Do you want the other half of your panini?”

“No thank you.”

“Will you share it with me?”

Alessia eyes me for a moment. “Okay,” she says, and fishing it out of the bag, she offer

s it to me.

“You take first bite.”

She smiles and does exactly that, then hands it to me.

“Thank you.” I flash her a quick grin. I’m relieved that she seems happier. “More music?”

She nods while chewing.

“Your choice. Just press that button and scroll through the tracks.”

Alessia squints at the screen and starts exploring my playlists. She’s diligently absorbed in the task. Illuminated by the screen, her face is serious and earnest. “I do not know any of this music,” she murmurs.

I hand her back the panini. “Choose one.”

Her finger taps the display, and I smile when I see what she’s chosen.

Bhangra. Why not?

A man starts singing a cappella. “What language is this?” Alessia asks, and takes another bite. A melted piece of mozzarella escapes out of the corner of her mouth. With her index finger, she pushes it back into her mouth and sucks her finger clean. My body comes to attention.

I grip the steering wheel. “Punjabi. I think.”

The band kicks in on the track, and Alessia passes the panini back to me. She sways in her seat to the rhythm. “I have not heard anything like this.”

“I sometimes use this as part of a set when I’m DJing. More?” I ask, offering her what’s left of the sandwich.

She shakes her head. “No. Thank you.”

I pop the remainder into my mouth, pleased that I managed to get her to eat more.

“DJing?” she asks.

“You know, in a club. For people to dance to. I DJ a couple of nights a month in Hoxton.”

I glance at Alessia, who is staring blankly at me.

She has no idea what I’m talking about.

“Okay, I’ll have to take you to a club.”

Alessia’s look is still blank, but she continues to tap her feet to the beat. I shake my head. How sheltered was this girl’s upbringing?

Given what she’s experienced, not so sheltered. What horror has she endured? My mind races, my thoughts depressing me.