The Mister

She might not need saving.

She might want to be here.

Don’t think that!

As we round a sweeping curve of the motorway, Kukës finally comes into view. It’s nestled in the valley, with a wide, blue-green river-lake in front of it and ringed by dramatic mountains. The vista is spectacular.

Wow.

This was Alessia’s view, every day.

We cross a sturdy bridge over the water. On a bluff above, a ghostly abandoned building stands sentinel, and I wonder if it’s another unfinished hotel.

* * *

On the outskirts of Nikšic, in Montenegro, Anatoli pulls in to the parking lot of a roadside café. Alessia stares listlessly out the window.

“I’m hungry. You must be, too. Let’s go,” he says. Alessia doesn’t bother to argue but follows him into the pleasant, clean space. It’s relatively new and decorated with a fun theme—automobiles—a cherry-red hot rod is painted above the bar. It’s an inviting place. But not for Anatoli; he’s irritable. He’s slapped the steering wheel several times and sworn loudly in the last couple of hours, infuriated by other drivers. He is not a patient man.

“Order something for both of us. I’m going to the restroom. Don’t run. I’ll find you.” He scowls at Alessia and leaves her to choose a table.

She’s now keen to make it home. Given how Anatoli behaved yesterday evening, she doesn’t want to spend another night with him. She’d rather face her father. She skims the menu, trying to find common words that she might recognize in either English or Albanian, but she’s tired and can’t seem to concentrate. Anatoli returns. He looks tired. Of course, he’s been driving constantly for several days now, but Alessia refuses to feel any sympathy for him.

“What did you order?” he snaps.

“I haven’t. Here’s the menu.” She hands it to him before he can gripe. A waiter joins them, and Anatoli orders without asking her what she wants. She’s amazed that Montenegrin seems to be yet another language he speaks fluently. The waiter scuttles away, and Anatoli pulls out his mobile phone.

Cool blue eyes meet hers. “Keep quiet,” he says, and he dials a number. “Good afternoon, Shpresa, is Jak there?”

Mama!

Alessia sits up. Fully engaged. He’s talking to her mother.

“Oh…Well, tell him we’ll be home around eight this evening….” Anatoli’s eyes slide to Alessia. “Yes, she’s with me. She’s well….No…She’s in the restroom.”

“What!”

Anatoli puts his index finger to his lips.

“Anatoli, let me talk to my mother,” Alessia insists, holding out her hand for the phone.

“We’ll see you then. Good-bye.” He hangs up.

“Anatoli!” Tears of anger threaten as a lump swells in her throat. She’s never felt as homesick as she does now.

Mama.

How could he begrudge her a few words to her mother?

“If you were a little more docile and grateful, I would have let you talk to her,” he says. “I have come a long way for you.”

Alessia glares at him, then drops her eyes. She doesn’t want to meet the challenge in his; she cannot bear to look at him after this latest outrage. He’s cruel and vindictive and petulant and childish. Fury quietly seeps into every vein in her body.

For all that he’s done, she will never forgive him.

Ever.

Her only hope is to plead with her father and beg him not to force their marriage.

* * *

Close up, Kukës is not what I thought it would be. It’s a nondescript town of weathered Soviet-style apartments built in blocks. Drita informs us via Thanas that it was constructed during the 1970s. The original old town of Kukës is now at the bottom of the lake; the valley was flooded to feed the hydroelectric dam that provides power to the surrounding region. The roads are lined with fir trees, there’s a blanket of snow on the ground, and the streets are quiet. There are a few shops, selling household goods, clothes, and farm equipment, and a couple of supermarkets. There’s a bank, a pharmacy, and many cafés, where, as is customary, men sit outside in the afternoon sunshine wrapped up against the chill, drinking coffee.

Again, where are all the women?

The most distinctive feature of the town is that at the end of each street, wherever I look, the mountains stand tall and proud in a dramatic backdrop. We are surrounded by their majestic beauty, and I find myself wishing I’d brought my Leica.

My travel agent has booked us into a hotel called, of all things, Amerika. Google Maps guides us through the backstreets to the hotel itself. It’s a curious mix of old and modern, with an entrance that looks like a Christmas grotto, especially now, as it’s dusted with snow.

Inside, it has to be one of the kitschiest places I’ve ever seen, crammed with touristy knickknacks procured from the USA, including several plastic Statues of Liberty. The decor is impossible to define, a mishmash of styles, but the overall effect is…cheery and friendly. The host, a wiry, bearded man in his thirties, is warm and welcoming and greets us in a broken version of English before ushering us upstairs to our rooms via a tiny lift. Tom and I take the twin room, leaving the double for Thanas and Drita.

“Will you ask him for directions to this place?” I hand Thanas a crumpled piece of paper with Alessia’s parents’ address.

“Yes. What time would you like to go?”

“Five minutes. Just give us time to unpack.”

“Steady on, Trevethick,” butts in Tom. “Can’t we have a drink first?”

Hmm…As my father would say, some Dutch courage always helps.

“A quick one. And just one. Okay? I’m going to meet my future wife’s parents—I don’t want to be stocious.” Tom nods enthusiastically and claims the bed nearer the door. “I hope to God you don’t snore,” I say as I unpack.

* * *

An hour later we are parked in a small layby that leads to two open, rusty metal gates. Beyond, down a concrete driveway, is a solitary, terra-cotta-roofed house on the banks of the Drin. Only the roof is visible.

“Thanas, you’d better come with me,” I say, and we leave Drita and Tom in the car. The glow of the setting sun casts tall shadows across the driveway. We’re on a large plot, surrounded by naked trees, though there are a few firs and a sizable, well-kept vegetable patch. The house is painted a pale green and has three stories and two balconies that face the water, from what I can see. It’s larger than the other houses we saw on our way here. Perhaps Alessia’s folks are affluent. I have no idea. The lake looks magnificent, lit up with the hues of a fading winter sunset.

On the outside of the house, there’s a satellite dish, and it reminds me of a conversation I had with Alessia.

And I’ve been to America by watching TV.

American TV?

Yes. Netflix. HBO.

I knock on what I assume is the front door. It’s made of a good soli

d wood, so I knock again, harder this time, to be sure to be heard. My heart is pounding, and in spite of the cold a trickle of sweat runs down my back.

This is it.

Game face on, dude.

I’m about to meet my new in-laws—though they don’t know that yet.

The door half opens, and a chink of light behind her reveals a slight, middle-aged woman in a headscarf. In the fading evening light, I see that she’s giving me a quizzical look, a little like Alessia.

“Mrs. Demachi?”

“Yes.” She looks bewildered.

“My name’s Maxim Trevelyan, and I’ve come about your daughter.”

She gapes at me, blinking furiously, then opens the door a little wider. She’s trim with slight shoulders, and she’s rather dowdily dressed in a voluminous skirt and blouse. Her hair is hidden beneath her headscarf, reminding me of the moment when I first saw her daughter standing like a frightened rabbit in my hallway.

“Alessia?” she whispers.

“Yes.”

She frowns. “My husband…is not here.” Her English sounds rusty and her accent much thicker than her daughter’s. She peers anxiously past me, scanning the driveway—for what, I don’t know—and then she looks directly at me. “You cannot be here.”

“Why?” I ask.

“My husband is not at home.”

“But I need to talk to you about Alessia. I think she’s on her way back here.”

She tilts her head, suddenly alert. “We are expecting her soon. You have heard she is returning?”

My heart leaps in response.

She’s coming home. I was right.

“Yes. And I’ve come to ask you and your husband for…” I swallow. “For…permission to marry your daughter.”