Elvira Dones - Sworn Virgin

‘Before we go on, what am I supposed to call you?’ O’Connor asks. ‘And if I’m not being indiscreet, what time do you get out of here?’

‘Hana. Call me Hana. My last name is the same. My real name has always been Hana Doda.’ She enunciates it clearly, and he nods that he understands. ‘It’s my given name. In northern Albanian it means “moon.”’

‘Ok, Miss Moon,’ O’Connor says, smiling, finally more at ease. ‘I’d like to wait for you, or see you at some other time, if that is to your liking.’

‘Look, you don’t have to do this, you know.’

‘I know I don’t have to. But if you’ll allow me, at this point I’m curious. Dead curious.’

Hana finishes her shift in twenty minutes and he says he’ll wait at the bookstore café. He leaves, with a nod of his head and a smile. He walks with a stride, his shoulders straight, like someone accustomed to hiding their fears. Or maybe he has none, because life has always treated him well. And she has made a giant mistake when she didn’t hang up as soon as she heard him in person on the other end of the line rather than the voice mail she had got the other times she tried. You’ve made this mess, now deal with it, she says to herself, calling the next customer in line to come and pay.

Half an hour later, when she sits in front of him, he smiles at her. He’s had time to think about this unexpected meeting, she thinks. He’s also had time to finish an espresso and flip through the newspaper. He crosses his arms and leans back on his chair. Hana experiments with a smile, shrugging her shoulders, and tries to hold his gaze. He’s in no hurry to start the conversation.

Before coming over and sitting down, Hana has spent a little time in the ladies’ room. She powdered her cheeks lightly. No bags under her eyes; last night she slept well. Lucky she decided to wear the jeans that fit her properly. Being androgynous has its advantages, she tells herself. She won’t be good-looking whatever she does and, anyway, she’s not here to please him — she lies — she’s here to put herself to the test. She’s still lying. She would like to make a dazzling impression. She would like to look enigmatic and translucent and deep and unusual and rare. She’s just tiny, plain and cheaply dressed, with a guy who is clearly sophisticated sitting opposite her.

‘Listen,’ she says, beginning the conversation herself since there seemed to be no alternative. ‘Go easy on me, and stop staring at me like that.’

He goes on stripping off her skin with his eyes, layer after layer. Only now he’s doing it more delicately, trying not to look over-curious.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s just I don’t really know how I’m supposed to behave.’

‘It’s not easy for me either.’

‘Right then, shall we make things a bit easier for ourselves?’

‘Ok,’ she decides. ‘Me first, since I’m the one who dragged you into this situation. I’m a woman. I’ve always been one. I’m not a transvestite, or a transsexual, and I’m not gay. I’ve never been any of these things. It’s just that I swore to become a man, in a social sense, sixteen years ago. I had to do it because my circumstances forced me to. The Kanun, the collected laws and traditions of northern Albania, allows a woman to become a man and give up her female role forever if she wants to, or if the head of the family orders her to. So I’m what they call a “sworn virgin.” You’ve researched the Balkans and Albania — you must have heard about them. That’s it. That’s my story, more or less. Now can I order a coffee?’

O’Connor leaps to his feet but Hana beats him to it and makes him sit down again. She stands in line for her coffee and tries to breathe normally. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him settle down and stare out of the window.

Hana returns with her steaming double espresso and sets the cup carefully on the table. She looks up and meets O’Connor’s stare.

‘When we met I felt there was something strange about you,’ he starts. ‘Your face was ambiguous, your voice was ambiguous, and your suit looked odd on you. But I couldn’t go out on a limb and ask anything too personal, could I?’

She sips her coffee, head down.

‘Anyway, at the time I knew nothing about the Kanun and northern Albania in general. It was the first time I’d set foot in the country, remember? Then I did a bit of research, I read a few things about it. I waited for you to call. I wanted to know how you had settled here in the US, but you never got in touch. I went back to Albania a few months ago. A couple of journalists in Tirana helped me try to find you, but …’

Hana smiles. She has finished her coffee and has nothing left to hide behind.

O’Connor is good-looking and relaxed, just as she remembers him. An oddball who’s interested in strange countries like the Balkan states. This thought is a blow to her self-esteem. She called the wrong guy, she tells herself, panic rising.

‘I’m really ashamed I called you,’ she says, sincerely. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’m a nobody to you.’

He lifts his hand.

‘Tell me more, come on, and call me by my name. If I didn’t want you to get in touch I wouldn’t have given you my card. Let’s just get the preliminaries and apologies over and done with, shall we? It’s just ballast, right?’

‘I’ve been thinking of calling you for months, but I was too scared,’ Hana admits.

He smiles.

‘We’re just having a conversation here: your English is great and I’m all ears. What else do you need to help you relax?’

The bookstore café is beginning to empty and the bartenders at the coffee machine are no longer calling out orders.

‘What if we get out of here?’ O’Connor proposes. ‘We could meet for dinner somewhere. You tell me where we can meet and—’

‘I’ve made a mess,’ Hana says. ‘I wanted to see if someone who isn’t Albanian can understand my story, but now I’m—’

‘Regretting it,’ O’Connor says, completing her sentence and laughing.

‘Yes, regretting it.’

‘Well, you did the right thing to call me,’ he says, still trying to reassure her. ‘But if you don’t feel up to it … I won’t insist. It’s weird for me too. Things like this don’t happen every day.’

They leave the café and the bookstore. Hana tells him that she came by bus that morning because her car is at the garage for an oil change. O’Connor offers her a lift, which she accepts so as not to be rude.

‘My apartment is very modest and I don’t feel comfortable letting you see it,’ she hurries to add.

O’Connor assures her he has no intention of making her feel uncomfortable, and laughs again, shaking his head incredulously.

They climb into his Chrysler 300M and drive in silence until they get to Halpine, where Hana tells him to take a right.

‘Right,’ she says, trying to sound confident. ‘I’ll take a shower, put on the most elegant clothes I own and we’ll go out to dinner. Is eight o’clock all right for you?’

The restaurant they have chosen is unpretentious and cozy. Sitting opposite him, she grins sheepishly and asks him to choose for her. O’Connor orders two prime ribs, jacket potatoes with sour cream, and green salad.

She stares out of the window. It’s a beautiful May evening and there is blossom on the trees. She doesn’t deserve this, she thinks. She doesn’t know how to reconcile O’Connor, the grief she feels within her and can’t expiate, and this incredible view.

‘I don’t know where to begin,’ she opens.

For the first time, the thought flicks through her mind that maybe with Jack it would have been easier. She would have told him the story little by little, as if he were a kid in elementary school, and Jack would have said, ‘No way!’ He would have said he couldn’t believe such a weird story. He would have said, ‘Cool!’ He would have said, ‘You don’t say?’ But she never had the guts to tell Jack anything, maybe because he already has enough problems of his own, and he’s black and their worlds seem so far apart. Hana always felt her past would be too difficult for him to grasp. But she still feels guilty every time she thinks about Jack, and every time she runs into him.