Elvira Dones - Sworn Virgin

Hana looks up at her cousin.

‘Eureka! What a discovery!’ Hana exclaims, forcing a smile. ‘And where am I going to find one of those? On Mars?’

‘What’s your problem all of a sudden?’ Lila asks. ‘You’ve taken it easy up to now. You wasted more time on your damn books than on yourself. You got pissed at me because I was hurrying you, and now you’re panicking and being totally negative.’

Hana stands up.

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll get over it.’

She starts taking the knives and forks out of the dresser drawer and Lila gets up to help her. They work well as a team; they complement each other and neither gets in the other’s way in the narrow kitchen.

‘Things’ll be fine. As soon as I start my new job I’ll be fine.’

‘A new job is not going to work miracles, my dear cousin.’

Hana doesn’t argue with her and for a while they sit in silence. Lila switches on the TV and zaps through several channels without finding anything she wants to watch. Hana only has the basic package on her cable: twenty-one dollars a month for thirty channels without HBO or quality movie channels. Lila ends up on a channel showing a documentary about some 9/11 survivors.

Hana checks the byrek in the oven, following the images on the screen out of the corner of her eye.

In the village square, that day back in Rrnajë, they had kept firing their rifles all night to celebrate Frrok’s daughter’s engagement. The men had dragged the chairs from the café tavern out onto the square and grabbed a few bottles of raki as they went. The women wore their party dresses. They had looked beautiful, with the colored headscarves of their folk costumes sewn with coins in a fringe over their foreheads chinking in joyous cacophony. Hana had felt her stomach clench painfully.

Men and women were never together at parties and funerals. Hana had to stick with the men. That was the rule of the Kanun. Watching the women dance with the children that afternoon, the younger men had murmured their appreciation, discreetly, without going overboard or being vulgar. Then the evening turned cold, and the men dragged the chairs back inside together with the raki bottles.

The old television set had failed to work for a while. The silent images beamed across the screen with frequent interruptions. The color faded into black and white then came back again.

When the airplane hit the skyscraper, Tonìn Palushi had said that the big wide world out there was in as much trouble as they were. ‘Just look at what pops into some people’s heads, flying through a skyscraper to get from one side to the other.’

The pilots must be drunk, some men commented. That must be why they got confused. With all that sky above their heads to fly in, did they have to land right there in the building?

They had gone on drinking. Lul, who worked at the tavern, slammed his hand down on the television set a couple of times to try and get the sound back, but to no effect. The men cursed. Lul started frying cheese and the sizzling oil was the only sound to accompany the images.

Hana had wondered what Lila was doing at that precise moment in America, and whether the towers were in the city where she lived. Tonìn Palushi had added that the two pilots must be friends. They had to be. The other men nodded their agreement. Lul served the fried cheese, bread, and more raki. If the Americans did these things they must have good reasons, Bessian from the Shala clan concluded.

‘Here’s to the health of Frrok and his daughter. The Americans know what they’re doing. It’s not for us to worry about them.’

Hana remembers that, if she had been able, she would have crashed into the women’s room in the kulla that afternoon just as the airplanes had crashed into the towers. She would have rushed in without asking permission and with all the men staring after her in shock. She would have defied all the rules, rebelled against their power. And, together with the women, she would have burst into tears.

Hana takes the byrek out of the oven and rests the baking tray on a cork mat. Lila hesitates, looks at Hana, and then launches into her speech.

‘I have an idea, and I’ll tell you what it is, though you may find it really dumb.’

The heat of the oven caresses Hana’s left cheek.

‘You can get rid of your virginity by going to see a gynecologist. I can take you to mine.’

Hana smiles and strokes her cheek.

‘You don’t need to tell her your life story. You can just explain that you want to make sure everything is ok for your first time. She’ll understand fine without needing to hear all the details. It’s easy for her to do it. It’s a simple, technical procedure and it could make things easier for you.’

They’re unable to discuss it further because Shtjefën arrives.

Eight days later Hana decides to go to the gynecologist on her own. The doctor treats Hana with respect and professionalism. She doesn’t know what Lila told the doctor — she doesn’t really want to know. When she’s done she pays in cash and steps out of the doctor’s office feeling relieved, with the doctor’s ‘Good luck’ resounding in her ears.

At home Lila is waiting anxiously.

‘Thank you,’ Hana says. ‘I should have thought of it sooner. I feel much better.’

‘Good,’ Lila says, back to her usual practical tone. ‘Now you just need to find a man.’

Work at the bookstore is relentless. Hana wants coffee and something sweet. She didn’t have breakfast this morning and she feels a little dizzy. Lucky it’s nearly the end of her shift and she’ll soon be able to go home and get some sleep. Forget evening reading.

She looks up to call the next customer in line and finds Patrick O’Connor, holding three books and a political journal. He hands them to Hana with a distracted ‘Good evening,’ but when their eyes meet he focuses on her, and then looks totally confused.

‘Good evening.’ Hana smiles, trying to sound as normal as possible. ‘Do you have a loyalty card, Mr O’Connor?’

Now he recognizes her. Still more confused, the shy smile he tries out on her rapidly fades. He pulls out his loyalty card and passes it to Hana, who slides it through the electronic reader.

‘I’m Mark Doda. You’re not wrong there. It’s not a mistake.’

He mumbles something inaudible.

‘I did tell you on the phone that you would find me different,’ she says, trying to hand him a lifeline.

The man fiddles with his wallet, and Hana feels emotion paralyzing her. But she goes on smiling.

‘I didn’t think you’d be this different,’ O’Connor manages to say. ‘You were … er … pretty vague on the phone.’

‘It wasn’t easy to tell you the whole story on the phone. I couldn’t face it. I apologize.’

O’Connor adjusts the lapels of his jacket for no reason.

‘Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to embarrass you.’

‘Anyway, I recognized you right away,’ he quips, trying to rescue them from this awkward moment.

Hana looks past him. The line of customers waiting to pay is getting longer; the cash registers are all working. She hands over the bag holding his books. O’Connor’s eyes are deep blue, his forehead is high. He must be in his fifties. Light-skinned and physically fit.

‘I don’t usually come to this neighborhood,’ he goes on, taking control. Hana is already regretting that she called him. ‘I had a doctor’s appointment nearby and had some time to spare, so here I am.’

‘I don’t know why I called you, but what’s done is done, right?’ she says, squirming with embarrassment as she realizes her cheeks are burning bright red. She looks again at the customers in line.