Elvira Dones - Sworn Virgin

‘Hana,’ Paco calls out to her, ‘Jack’s here.’

Jack is black and rough looking, and very kind. Unfortunately he expresses himself in incomprehensible slang. She asks him shyly to speak more slowly because she’s new to the country, but he says sadly he can’t speak any other way. He asks her what her name is. She says Hana, but when he repeats it the ‘a’ turns into an open, nasal ‘e.’ Hana explains that she really cares about the way her name is pronounced; she wants him to get it right. He stops chewing his gum for a moment, looks at her with a curious expression, and smiles.

As the day goes by, she begins to appreciate Jack. He tells her a lot about himself, though she only understands half of it. At the end of the four hours he holds out his hand, shakes hers hard, says they will see each other that evening, and leaves.

Hana breathes in the unhealthy air of the parking lot. It has three floors, two of which are underground. She has the sensation of a breeze blowing through her brain. One by one, in her mind she goes over the things Jack has shown her.

‘I’m sorry for your sake,’ Jack had said twice during the final half hour of her training. ‘You’ll be on your own here. It’s the only thing about this job I don’t like. If I can’t talk to someone, I go crazy.’

Hana told him that for her it wasn’t a problem.

‘You’re only saying that because you have no idea what it means not to talk for hours at a time.’

The day of the shooting competition at Rrnajë, Mark Doda had been caressing the stone with the hole in the middle intensely. It was always in the same right-hand pocket. The men had been noisy. Senseless, Mark had thought, all this was senseless, over the top; their senseless words the result of senseless excitement. Lul, the owner of the scruffy café in the village, had suggested starting with the easiest targets, middle-sized stones perched on bigger rocks. The shooting was to be only with Kalashnikovs; every kulla had more than one in the house. In Tirana they had broken into the military arsenals. The whole of Albania had gone crazy, shooting wildly in the streets. In two months it would be 1998. Weapons traveled through Montenegro and Kosovo all the way to Serbia, and the ‘cursed mountains’ happened to be in their path.

The café owner had suggested a shooting competition rather than firing like crazy at nothing in particular like those idiots in Tirana. They had chosen a clearing near the village, in a narrow gorge. After each round they had drunk a shot of raki. The first round had been on Lul, but then they all had to pay their way. The targets had grown smaller and smaller.

Mark had been sweating, but had continued to caress his secret amulet. It had gone surprisingly well, considering. He had been eliminated more than halfway through the competition and was amazed he had made it that far. Shkurtàn, from the Gjetaj clan, had won. When it was all over, and silence had enveloped the mountains once more, the air had reeked of gunpowder and raki.

The men had collapsed on the ground or slumped in broken chairs, soaked in their melancholy, until deep into the night. The day after, the village kids had gathered up the cartridge cases; and the boys in the Gjetaj clan had enjoyed a few weeks of glory thanks to Shkurtàn’s skill with an automatic. Then, yet again, there had been the usual emptiness.

Hana is smiling, sitting all alone in the cramped guardian’s office. Remembering herself as Mark, whatever else it makes her feel, can’t not give her pleasure. She even smiles at Jack, just like that, without saying a word. The world is at her feet. Less than three months have gone by since she left Rrnajë and here she is, thanks to Shtjefën, with a job. She’s so happy that, if she could, she would give herself a big hug.

If the job is like this first day then everything will be ok. She just needs to pay attention. She needs to be hard-working, punctual. Not be scared of the language. Speak to the drivers when they want to know things, pronouncing every word carefully. Not be in a hurry. She’s new to the country, and she can say so without raising any red flags, Lila has explained over and over. In America having just arrived is no big deal. In Europe you’re immediately labeled inferior, especially in Central and Eastern Europe. If you say you’re Albanian you’re toast. America’s much better from this point of view. It’s tough for newcomers, but the Americans are so used to foreigners they hardly take any notice. And then they don’t pry into your private life. No questions asked. They’re always going someplace else in a hurry, and they mind their own business. Hana likes the part about minding their own business more than all the rest put together.

A high-powered car is pulling into the half-empty parking lot. The woman driving is massively overweight and Hana catches herself thinking she will find it hard to get out of the vehicle. She gives her the entrance ticket, which the woman puts on her dashboard. So far, so good.

The day goes by without incident, marked by nothing other than cars coming in and cars going out. Hana irons out the crumpled, mostly one-dollar bills with her hands and puts them into tidy piles. She goes over everything three times, just to be extra sure.

Jack comes back to pick up the day’s earnings. The guy doing the night shift is with him. From Poland originally, he speaks in monosyllabic grunts. If he were a bit friendlier, she might even tell him she’s Albanian — after all, they were once in the same communist bloc — but the guy clearly has no intention of starting a conversation.

Hana waits for Shtjefën to come pick her up on the sidewalk, leaning on a streetlight. It’s a cold evening. It has suddenly become winter. She focuses on the sneakers she’s wearing for the first time today. They’re white and blue and go well with her dark-blue suit and white shirt. The shirt has a left breast-pocket with a pink border. Hana strokes the stitching as she waits.

Shtjefën pulls up in front of her. Hana could easily get a bus home. It was only a few stops, but Lila and Shtjefën insisted.

‘Hop in,’ he calls out to her. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

She climbs in, a bit distracted.

‘Is everything ok?’ Shtjefën asks her. ‘Why didn’t you wait at the bar instead of standing here getting cold? You had money with you, right?’

‘Everything’s fine. It was easy.’

‘I told you so.’

Shtjefën pulls away from the curb, his tires squealing. He needs a haircut and some rest, she thinks, so she decides to keep quiet.

He doesn’t stop at home, but carries on driving without any explanation. In Gaithersburg he announces that they’re on their way to buy her a used Honda.

‘The son of one of my workers owns a small garage, and he’s giving us a great price on a car that was headed for the junkyard.’

‘Does Lila know about this?’

‘She’d tie you to the bed rather than see you go. We need to present her with a fait accompli. I’ll pay, for now. You can pay me back when you have the money.’

‘Lila’s not going to like it.’

‘Your cousin is very understanding. You just have to know how to handle her,’ Shtjefën says with a sly smile. ‘And I know how to handle her.’

Hana is so happy she’s ashamed of it. Her left breast is itching. This is too much all in one day.

‘Shtjefën, I’m …’

‘Relax,’ he says, interrupting her. ‘And stop thanking me. I can’t take it anymore, all day it’s thank you this and thank you that. Have pity on me!’

Less than an hour later, Hana is the proud owner of a white Honda, which she drives home extremely cautiously, tailing Shtjefën. When they get home, Jonida lets out a shrill ‘Wow!’ Lila looks sad but content. Hana says she’s going to buy four steaks from Whole Foods and there’s no way the family can stop her, though they never shop there. It’s a place for rich people who only eat organic, and the prices are way too high.