The Mister

“I don’t want to wait. And if I have to fight you, so be it.” He moves suddenly, grabbing her by her shoulders and yanking her upright and out of her seat so forcefully that she knocks her chair to the floor. Fear and anger surge through her body. She twists and kicks, her foot striking his shin and then the table, rattling the crockery and cutlery and knocking over her glass so that it spills the remaining wine.

“Ow. Fuck,” he whines.

“No!” she shouts, lashing out with both her feet, her fists flailing, hoping to strike him. He lunges at her and grabs her around the waist, jerking her into his arms. He lifts her off her feet while she kicks out at anything and everything in their path in an effort to strike him.

“No!” she screams. “Please, Anatoli!”

Ignoring her cries, he tightens his arms around her and half drags, half carries her into the bedroom.

“No. No. Stop!”

“Quiet!” he shouts as he shakes her and throws her facedown onto the bed. He sits beside her, holding her still, pressing down on her back with one hand while the other starts tugging at her boots.

“No!” she screams again. She twists, kicking him, once, twice, trying to struggle out of his hold as she pummels him with her fists.

“For fuck’s sake, Alessia!”

She’s wild, her anger and loathing giving her a strength she didn’t know she possessed. She fights, consumed by her rage and directing it at the man she hates.

“Fucking hell.” Anatoli throws himself on top of her, crushing her into the mattress and knocking the breath from her body. She tries to buck him off, but he’s too heavy.

“Calm down,” he pants in her ear. “Calm down.”

She stills, marshaling her resources and struggling to gulp air into her lungs. Anatoli shifts his weight and flips her over so that they’re nose to nose. Keeping his leg over her thighs, he grabs her hands and pulls them above her head, pinning them there with one hand.

“I want you. You are my wife.”

“Please. No,” she whispers, staring into his wild, wide eyes. In them she sees his excitement—his lean body vibrates with it. She feels it against her hip. He stares down at her, breathing hard, and one of his hands moves over her body, over her breast and belly to her fly.

“No. Anatoli, please. I’m bleeding. Please. I’m bleeding.” She’s lying, but it’s a last desperate attempt to stop him. He frowns, as if not understanding, and then his expression changes from lust to distaste.

“Oh,” he says.

Releasing her hands, he rolls off her and stares up at the ceiling. “Maybe we should wait,” he grumbles.

Alessia twists onto her side, drawing up her knees and curling into a ball, making herself as small as possible. Despair, revulsion, fear—these are her bedfellows now. Her tears start to choke her, and she feels the bed move as Anatoli rises and walks back into the living room.

How long can she cry before her tears dry up?

Moments. Seconds. Hours.

* * *

Later Anatoli drapes a blanket over her. She feels the bed dip as he climbs in, beneath the covers. He shuffles over, wraps his arm around her, and tugs her unyielding body closer. “You will suit me well, carissima,” he murmurs, and his lips brush her cheek in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

Alessia puts her fist to her mouth, stifling her silent scream.

* * *

She wakes suddenly. The room is in semidarkness, lit only by the gray light of the coming dawn. Beside her, Anatoli is fast asleep. His face is relaxed and less stern in repose. Alessia stares at the ceiling, her mind on full alert. She’s still dressed and wearing her boots. She could run.

Go. Now. She wills herself.

Slowly, stealthily, she rolls off the bed and tiptoes out of the room.

The detritus of their meal from the previous night is still on the table. Alessia eyes the cold fries, hastily grabs a few, and stuffs them into her mouth. While she eats, she rummages through her bag and finds her money. She slips the notes into her back pocket.

She stops and listens.

He’s still asleep.

Beside her duffel she spies Anatoli’s suitcase. Maybe he keeps his money in there….If he does, it could help her escape. Carefully she unzips it, not knowing what she’ll find inside.

It’s neatly packed. There are some clothes—and his gun.

The gun.

She fishes it out.

She could kill him.

Before he kills her.

Her heart starts pounding, and her head begins to spin.

She has the power. The means. The pistol is weighty in her hand.

Standing up, she sidles toward the bedroom door and watches Anatoli sleep. He hasn’t moved. A tremor runs up her spine, and her breathing shallows. He’s kidnapped her. Beaten her. Choked her. Nearly raped her. She despises him and everything he stands for. She’s terrified of him. She raises her trembling hand and takes aim. Quietly she releases the safety. Her head is throbbing, sweat beading on her brow.

This is it.

Her moment.

Her hand wobbles, and her vision blurs with her tears.

No. No. No. No.

She dashes them away and drops her hand.

She’s not a murderer.

She turns the gun around. And stares down the barrel. She’s seen enough American television to know what to do.

She doesn’t want to blindly accept her fate. This is one way out.

She could end it all, now. Her misery would be over.

She will feel nothing. Ever again.

Her mother’s anguished face comes to her mind.

Mama.

How devastated would she be…?

She thinks of Maxim. And dismisses the thought of him immediately.

She’ll never see him again.

Her throat is closing. Choked with emotion. She screws up her eyes. Panting.

She can die at her own hand. Not Anatoli’s…

And someone will have to clean up afterward.

No. No. No.

She crumples to the floor. Defeated. A failure. She cannot take her own life. She doesn’t have the gumption. And deep down she wants to stay alive in the vague hope of seeing Maxim again. She can’t run. She needs to get home. Zagreb is not five days’ walk from London, it’s so much farther. She’s helpless. She rocks quietly to and fro, holding herself and cradling the gun, while she silently surrenders to her grief. She’s never been so distraught. She’s never wept this many tears. Ever. Even after her traumatic escape and on her long walk to Magda’s. She’d mourned her grandmother and felt her loss—but she never felt this desolate. This sorrow is overwhelming. She cannot kill him, and she cannot kill herself. She’s lost the man she loves, and she’s bound to a man she loathes.

Her heart is broken. No. Her heart has disappeared.

* * *

As the sun peeks over the horizon, she stifles her sobs and through her tears she examines the gun. It’s similar to one of her father’s.

There is something she can do; she’s seen her father do it often enough. She unclips the magazine and is surprised to find only four bullets in it. She removes them and then sharply pulls the slide back and catches the remaining round as it’s ejected from the chamber. She reloads the magazine into the gun and pockets the bullets. Then she places the pistol back in Anatoli’s case and zips it up.

Standing, she wipes away her tears. Enough with the crying, she scolds herself. She glances toward the window as the skyline of Zagreb materializes in the early-morning light. From the fifteenth floor of the Westin hotel, the city is spread out beneath like a terra-cotta patchwork quilt. It’s an arresting vista, and in a distracted moment she wonders if Tiranë is similar.

“You’re awake.” Anatoli’s voice startles her.

“

I was hungry.” She glances at the table of leftover food. “Now I’m going to have a shower.”

Grabbing her bag, she scuttles into the bathroom and locks the door.

* * *

When she emerges, Anatoli is up and dressed. Their crockery and the leftover food have been cleared away, and there’s fresh linen on the table, with a continental breakfast laid out for them.

“You stayed,” Anatoli says quietly. He seems subdued, though he’s as watchful as ever.

“Where would I go?” Alessia replies wearily.

He shrugs. “You left once before.”

Alessia stares at him. Mute. Despondent. Exhausted.

“Is it because you care for me?” he whispers.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says, and, sitting down, picks out a pain au chocolat from the bread basket.

He takes his seat opposite her, and she can tell he’s hiding a slight and hopeful smile.

* * *

Tom and I wander across the vast Skanderbeg Square, which is close to the hotel. It’s a clear, chill morning, with the sun reflecting off the multicolored marble tiles that pave the gargantuan space. It’s dominated on one side by a bronze statue of Albania’s fifteenth-century hero on horseback, and on the other by the National History Museum. Although I’m anxious to get to Alessia’s town and find her home, we have to wait to meet our interpreter.

I’m unsettled and jittery and unable to keep still, so to kill time Tom and I take a quick walk through the museum. I distract myself by snapping numerous photographs and posting the odd one online. I get told off twice, but I ignore the officials and continue to take photographs surreptitiously. It’s hardly the British Museum, but I’m fascinated by the Illyrian artifacts. Tom, of course, is preoccupied with the displays of medieval weaponry; Albania has a rich and bloody history.