* * *
“Our final border crossing, carissima,” Anatoli says. “Back to your home country. Shame on you for leaving it and skulking away like a thief and dishonoring your family. When we return, you can apologize to your parents for the worry you have caused them.”
Alessia averts her eyes, inwardly cursing him for making her feel guilty for running away. She was running from him! She knows that many Albanian men leave their country to work abroad—for women it’s not so easy.
“This is the last time you have to go in the trunk. But wait, I need to retrieve something first.” She stands back and looks west to where the sun has finally disappeared behind the hills. The chill in the air reaches through her clothes and entwines around her heart. And she knows it’s because she’s pining for the only man she’ll ever love. Tears rise unexpectedly into her eyes, and she blinks them back.
Not now.
She doesn’t want to give Anatoli the satisfaction.
She will cry tonight.
With her mother.
She inhales deeply. This is what freedom smells like—chilly, foreign. When she next takes a deep breath, she’ll be in her homeland, and her adventures will become a…what did Maxim call it? A folly from the past.
“Get in. It will be night soon,” Anatoli snaps as he holds open the lid.
The night belongs to the djinn.
And she’s staring at one now. That’s what he is. The djinn personified. She climbs in without complaint and without touching him. She’s getting closer to home, and for the first time, she’s looking forward to seeing her mother.
“Soon, carissima,” he says, and there’s a troubling glint in his eye.
“Shut the trunk,” she responds as she clutches the flashlight.
His lips lift in a sardonic smile, and he slams the lid down, leaving her in darkness.
* * *
Mrs. Demachi gasps, and with another quick and anxious glance past me, she steps aside. “Come in.”
“Wait in the car,” I say to Thanas, and I follow her into a confined vestibule, where she points to a shoe rack.
Oh. Quickly I slip off my boots, relieved that I’m wearing matching socks.
And that would be because of Alessia….
The hall is painted white, its shiny tiled floor topped by a brightly colored kilim rug. She waves me on into an adjoining room, where two old sofas covered in bold and colorful patterned blankets face each other across a small table that’s also covered in a rich printed cloth. Beyond is a fireplace, its mantelpiece peppered with old photographs. I squint, hoping to see one of Alessia. There’s one of a young girl with large, serious eyes, seated at a piano.
My girl!
The grate is piled with logs, but they remain unlit in spite of the cold, and I suspect that this is the drawing room used to receive company. Pride of place is given to the old upright piano that sits against the wall. It’s plain and shabby, but I bet it’s tuned to perfection. This is where she plays.
My talented girl.
Beside the piano is a tall shelf stacked with well-thumbed books.
Alessia’s mother has not asked me to remove my coat. I don’t think I’m going to be here for long.
“Please. Sit,” she instructs.
I take a seat on one of the sofas, and she perches on the edge of the one opposite, radiating tension. Clasping her hands together, she stares at me expectantly. Her eyes are the same dark shade as Alessia’s—but whereas Alessia’s are full of mystery, her mother’s hold only sadness. I guess it’s because she’s anxious about her daughter. But from her lined face and the sprinkling of gray in her hair, it’s obvious she’s not led an easy life.
Life in Kukës is hard for some women.
Alessia’s quietly spoken words come back to me.
Her mother blinks a couple of times. I suspect I’m making her nervous or uncomfortable, and for that I feel a little guilty.
“My friend Magda, she writes to me about a man who helps my Alessia and also Magda herself. Is that you?” Her voice is hesitant and soft.
“Yes.”
“How is my daughter?” she whispers. She’s studying me intensely, clearly desperate for news of Alessia.
“When I last saw her, she was fine. More than fine, she was happy. I met her when she worked for me. She came to my house to clean.” I simplify my English, hoping Alessia’s mother can keep up.
“You have come all the way from England?”
“Yes.”
“For Alessia?”
“Yes. I’ve fallen in love with your daughter, and I believe she loves me, too.”
Her eyes widen. “She does?” She looks alarmed.
Okay…this is not the reaction I’d been expecting.
“Yes. She told me she does.”
“And you want to marry her?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that she wants to marry you?”
Ah!
“In truth, Mrs. Demachi, I don’t know. I haven’t had the chance to ask her. I believe that she’s been kidnapped and is being brought to Albania against her will.”
She leans her head back, her eyes intense, assessing me.
Shit.
“My friend Magda speaks well of you,” she says. “But I don’t know you. Why would my husband let you marry our daughter?”
“Well, I know she doesn’t want to marry the man her father has chosen for her.”
“She says this to you?”
“She’s told me everything. And what’s more, I listened. I love her.”
Mrs. Demachi bites her upper lip, and the mannerism is so reminiscent of her daughter that I have to hide my smile. “My husband will return soon. And it is for him to decide what will become of Alessia. His mind is set on her betrothed. He has given his word.” She looks down at her clasped hands. “I let her go once, and it broke my heart. I don’t think I can let her go again.”
“Do you want her to be trapped in a violent, abusive marriage?”
Her eyes whip to mine, and in them I see a glimpse of her pain and her insight, swiftly followed by her shock that I know—this is her life.
Everything that Alessia ever said about her father comes back to me.
Mrs. Demachi whispers, “You must go. Go now.” She stands up.
Fuck.
I’ve offended her.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I stand, too.
She frowns, looking momentarily confused and undecided. Then, suddenly, she blurts out, “Alessia will return here at eight o’clock this evening, with her betrothed.” She averts her eyes from mine for a moment, probably wondering if it was a good idea to impart this state secret.
Reaching out, I want to squeeze her clasped hands in gratitude, but I stop myself, as my touch may not be welcome. Instead I give her my most sincere and grateful smile. “Thank you. Your daughter means the world to me.”
She thaws briefly, rewarding me with a hesitant smile of her own, and again I see a little of Alessia in her.
She shows me to the door, where I slip on my boots and she ushers me out. “Good-bye,” she says.
“Are you going to tell your husband that I’ve been here?”
“No.”
“Okay. I understand.” I offer what I hope is a reassuring smile, and I head back to the car.
* * *
Back at the hotel, I’m restless. We’ve tried watching TV. Neither Tom nor I understand what we’re watching. We’ve tried reading, and now we’re in the bar. It’s on the roof and would offer an impressive daytime view of Kukës, the lake, and the surrounding mountains. But it’s dark and the dimly lit vista offers no solace for me.
She’s on her way home.
With him.
I hope she’s okay.
“Sit down. Maybe h
ave a drink,” Tom says. I give him a sideways look. It’s at times like this that I wish I smoked. The anticipation and the tension are almost unbearable. After one slug of whiskey, I can bear no more.