Will she ever see him again?
* * *
Somewhere in Austria, Anatoli stops at the services again, but this time only for gas. He insists Alessia accompany him into the store. Reluctantly she trails after him, oblivious
to her surroundings.
Back on the autobahn, he announces, “We’ll be in Slovenia soon. When we get to Croatia, you’ll need to go into the trunk.”
“Why?”
“Because Croatia is not part of the Schengen Agreement, and there’s a border.”
Alessia blanches. She hates being in the trunk. She loathes the dark.
“When we stopped for gas, I bought more batteries for the flashlight.”
She glances at Anatoli, and he catches her eye. “I know you don’t like it. But it can’t be helped.” He turns his attention back to the road. “And it shouldn’t be for so long this time. When we stopped in Dunkirk, I thought you were unconscious from carbon monoxide poisoning or something.” He frowns, and if Alessia is not mistaken, she would swear he’s concerned. This afternoon at the restaurant, he had regarded her with warmth.
“What is it?” he asks, snapping her out of her reverie.
“I’m not used to concern from you,” she states. “Only violence.”
Anatoli’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Alessia, if you don’t do as you’re told, there are consequences. I expect you to be a traditional Gheg wife. That’s all you need to know. I think you have become too opinionated while you’ve been in London.”
She doesn’t answer him but turns away and stares out at the passing countryside, nursing her misery as they drive on into the afternoon.
* * *
Our flight lands in Tirana at 20:45 local time in pouring, icy rain. Tom and I are traveling with hand baggage only, so we go straight through customs and emerge into a modern, well-lit airport terminal. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but the place looks like any small airport in Europe, with all the facilities one might need.
Our rental car, on the other hand, is a revelation. My travel agent had warned me that there were no prestige cars for hire, so I find myself at the wheel of a car whose make I have never heard of: a Dacia. It’s the most basic and analog car I’ve ever driven, though it does have a USB port in the radio so we can plug in my iPhone and use Google Maps. I’m surprised to find myself liking the car; it’s practical and sturdy. Tom christens it “Dacy,” and after some negotiation at the exit to the car park and a small bribe to the parking attendant, we are off.
Driving at night—in torrential rain, on the wrong side of the road, in a country where private car ownership was unheard of until the mid-1990s—is a challenge. But forty minutes later, Dacy and Google Maps get us in one piece to the Plaza hotel in the center of Tirana.
“Fuck, that was hairy,” Tom announces as we pull up in front of the hotel.
“Damn right.”
“Though I’ve driven in worse conditions,” he mutters. I turn off the ignition, knowing that he’s making an oblique reference to his time in Afghanistan. “How far did you say this girl’s hometown is?”
“Her name’s Alessia,” I growl, for what feels like the tenth time, and wonder about the wisdom of agreeing to let Tom accompany me. “I think it’s about a three-hour drive.” He’s a good man in a pinch, but diplomacy has never been his strong point.
“Sorry, old man. Alessia.” He taps his forehead. “I’ve got it. I hope the rain holds off tomorrow. Let’s check in and find somewhere to have a drink.”
* * *
In the trunk of the Mercedes, Alessia clutches the flashlight as the car lurches to a stop. They must have reached the border with Croatia. She closes her eyes, pulls Anatoli’s coat over her head, and switches off the flashlight. She doesn’t want to get caught. She just wants to get home. She hears voices—they’re quiet and in control. And the car starts to move. She breathes a sigh of relief and flicks on the bright beam once more. She’s reminded of the makeshift hideaway beneath the sheets that she shared with Maxim and the little dragon. They were sitting and talking on his vast, baronial bed, their knees touching and…Her pain is swift and sudden. She aches to the bottom of her soul.
Before long the Mercedes slows and stops. The engine idles, and moments later Anatoli opens the trunk. Alessia switches off the flashlight and sits up, blinking in the darkness.
They are on a deserted rural road; a small bungalow squats darkly opposite them. Anatoli is lit by the car’s tail-lights, his face cast in demonic red, his breath an ominous cloud around him. He offers his hand to help her out, and because she’s tired and stiff, she accepts. She stumbles as she steps out of the trunk, and he yanks her forward, into his arms.
“Why are you so hostile?” he breathes against her temple. Tightening his hold around her waist, he grasps the back of her head with his hand and grips her hair. In spite of the cold, his breath is hot and heavy between them. As Alessia registers what’s happening, his lips swoop down hard on hers. He tries to force his tongue into her mouth, and she struggles, fear and loathing careening through her body in a potent mix. She pushes ineffectually at his arms and frantically twists, trying to struggle out of his hold. He leans back to look down at her, and before she can stop herself, she slaps him across his face, her palm ringing from the blow, and he retreats. Shocked. She’s breathing gulps of air, adrenaline coursing through her veins, chasing away her fear and leaving anger in its stead. Anatoli glares at her, rubbing his cheek, and before she can blink, he slaps her hard across her face. Once. Twice. Her head jerks from the right to the left, and she staggers at the force of each blow. With little care he picks her up and drops her back into the trunk so that she hits her shoulder, her backside, and her head. And before she can protest, he slams the lid shut.
“Until you learn to behave and be civil, you can stay in there!” he shouts. Alessia clutches her throbbing head as anger burns in her throat and behind her eyes.
This is her life now.
* * *
I take a sip of Negroni. Tom and I are in a bar next door to the hotel. It’s contemporary, sleek, and comfortable, and the staff are friendly and attentive, but not overly so. What’s more, they serve a bloody good Negroni.
“I think we fell on our feet with this place,” Tom says as he takes another slug of his drink. “I don’t know what I was expecting. Goats and wattle-and-daub shacks, I think.”
“Yes. I had the same idea. This place exceeds all expectations.”
He eyes me speculatively. “Forgive me, Trevethick. But I have to know. Why are you doing this?”
“What?”
“Chasing this girl all over Europe? Why?”
“Love,” I state, as if it’s the most understandable reason in the world.
Why doesn’t he get this?
“Love?”
“Yep. It’s that simple.”
“For your daily?”
I roll my eyes. What is it about the fact that Alessia used to clean for me? And still wants to clean for me! “Just deal with it, Tom. I’m going to marry her.”
He splutters into his drink, spitting red liquid over the table, and I wonder again at the wisdom of bringing him on this journey. “Steady on, Trevethick. She’s a pretty girl, from what I remember, but is that wise?”
I shrug. “I love her.”
He shakes his head, bemused.
“Tom, just because you haven’t got the nerve to do the decent thing and pop the fucking question to Henrietta—who is a saint to put up with you—don’t judge.”
He frowns, and a pugnacious gleam lights up his eyes. “Listen, old boy, I wouldn’t be doing my duty as a friend if I didn’t state the fucking obvious.”
“The fucking obvious?”
“You’re in mourning, Maxim.” His voice is surprisingly gentle. “Have you considered that this sudden infatuation is part of your way of dealing with your brother’s death?”
“This has nothing to do with Kit, and I’m not fucking infatuated. You don’t know her like I do. She’s an exceptional woman. And I’ve known countless women. She’s different. She’s not bothered by
trivial shit….She’s smart. Funny. Courageous. And you should hear her play the piano. She’s a fucking genius.”
“Really?”
“Yes. This is the real deal. I’m seeing the world in a whole different light since I met her. And questioning my place in it.”
“Steady on.”
“No, Tom. You steady on. She needs me. It’s good to be needed, and I need her.”
“But that’s no basis for a relationship.”
I grit my teeth. “It’s not just that. You’ve fought for your country. You now run a successful business. What the fuck have I ever done?”
“Well, you’re about to take your place in the history of the Trevethick family, and preserve that legacy for generations to come.”
“I know.” I sigh. “It’s daunting, and I want someone I trust beside me. Someone who loves me. Someone who appreciates me for more than my wealth and title. Is that too much to ask?”
He frowns.
“You’ve found that person,” I add. “And you take Henrietta for granted.”
He exhales and stares down at the remains of his drink.
“You’re right,” he mumbles. “I love Henry. I should do the decent thing.”
“You should.”
He nods. “Okay. Let’s order another.” He signals to the waiter for another round of drinks, and I wonder if I’ll have to deal with this level of doubt about Alessia from all my friends…from my family.
“Make them doubles,” I call.
* * *
Alessia wakes and realizes the car has stopped. The engine is off. The lid of the trunk lifts, and Anatoli is standing over her once more. “Maybe you have learned some manners?”
Alessia gives him a venomous look and sits up, rubbing her fists in her eyes.
“Get out. We’ll spend the night here.” He doesn’t offer her his hand this time but reaches in and grabs his coat from her and slips it on. The biting wind wraps around her, and she shivers. She aches everywhere, but she climbs out of the trunk and, feeling gloomy, stands to one side, waiting for his next move.