Elvira Dones - Sworn Virgin

Patrick O’Connor smiles, a little impatiently. Hana starts telling him about Gjergj, Katrina, her parents. She tells him again what a sworn virgin is, and goes through the various reasons why a woman might decide to become a man and give up any chance of life with a partner. As she finishes she flashes a smile at O’Connor, and tries to look as if what she has said is the most natural thing in the world.

The waiter, too chatty and obsequious for her taste, cracks a few stupid jokes as he brings their food to the table.

Now it’s O’Connor’s turn to be lost in thought. He cuts his meat slowly, mumbling ‘Enjoy your meal’ without looking at her. They eat in silence. She leaves half her ribs on her plate, and hardly touches her jacket potato. He finishes everything with evident pleasure.

‘The fact that you’re a woman who became a man … ’ O’Connor starts, setting his knife and fork straight on his plate. Hana puts her napkin down, then picks it up again and puts it on her lap. ‘It’s striking … Of course I’m curious, there’s no doubt about that … and you know it too, right? Or you wouldn’t have called me. A “sworn virgin.” It’s fascinating, yes.’

She tries to smile naturally, but doesn’t feel she’s succeeding. God, Americans are so direct, she thinks. She likes this quality but at the same time finds it hard to deal with.

‘Well, here I am, a living example, maybe the only one who has ever left the country. The others are all in Albania.’

She concentrates her attention on Patrick’s hands. They’re tanned. She asks him if he does any sport. He tells her about a little sailboat he shares with a friend and keeps in Chesapeake Bay.

She thinks that if she can make it to the end of this dinner without committing any major faux pas it’ll be a miracle. O’Connor starts telling her a little more about himself. He lives alone. He makes a living as a freelance journalist for three print newspapers. He owns an apartment on Massachusetts Avenue. His ex-wife lives in Geneva and they are on good terms. No kids. No sentimental attachments since quite a while back. Has a hard time maintaining relationships owing to his job, which takes him around the world. A classic example of emotional failure, if that helps Hana feel more at ease.

She smiles shyly. She can see that his emotions are also playing tricks on him, and she’s relieved. They start on the wine, which they had completely forgotten about.

‘I thought you were gay, back when we were on the plane,’ O’Connor confesses. ‘Thanks for placing your trust in me.’

Hana sips her wine cautiously.

‘Seriously, thanks. I must get hold of the Kanun and read it.’

Silence.

‘You can read my story if you want,’ Hana says.

O’Connor loosens his tie.

‘In the years I lived as a man I kept a diary. I’ve rewritten it here in my terrible English and my niece has corrected it — well, partly corrected it — so people can understand it.’

‘Did you write any more poems?’

‘I’ve been too busy taking care of myself,’ she answers warily.

He lifts his arms, cocks his head to one side and smiles candidly.

‘It’s weird,’ he says. ‘I was sure I’d met people with the most tragic and unique stories. I have always traveled to their countries to seek them out: Nicaragua, Argentina, Lebanon, Pakistan, Bosnia. Yet now I’m here with you and I’ve just heard the most incredible story. You go around the world digging out stories and the real gem is sitting there right next to you. No cliché has ever been more true.’

He stops and thinks for a moment, then asks Hana about her family in Rockville. She tells him about Lila, Shtjefën, and especially about Jonida. She describes them in minute detail, and she tells him about how scared she is now that she has to manage her everyday life on her own after the months she spent at their house. A mountain girl like me, who’d never even seen a credit card, she tells him; she wasn’t so sure she’d succeed.

She goes back to talk about Jonida, adding more stories. He listens attentively. Or maybe he’s just developed the art of looking interested while his mind wanders over more distant pastures. He is a journalist, after all, Hana thinks.

‘I’m talking too much, sorry.’

He takes her hand, as if to reassure her, and tightens his grip momentarily.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m still bowled over.’

He suggests going out for a short walk. Hana is embarrassed to say no. She’s not used to this kind of thing, and it would be really nice to be taken home, she’s pretty tired.

O’Connor gestures for the bill and then turns towards Hana, looking at her softly.

‘I always take one step at a time,’ Hana says. ‘I don’t know if you understand.’

‘I’ll take you home. But don’t say we won’t see one another again. I have a list of questions this long to ask you.’

‘Slowly does it,’ she says. ‘I need time. Anyway, I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t expect any friendship. This meeting might be enough for me.’

‘If we can’t get away from this idea of obligation,’ Patrick says, ‘then we may as well forget the whole thing. All I’m offering is my pleasure in seeing you again, and understanding your story. It’s up to you.’

On their way back to Hana’s house, she stares out of the car window, wondering where she should put her hands, still resting in her lap for now. She lifts them and crosses her arms. That’s better; she feels more in control. O’Connor is on Route 270, and politely waiting for her to speak first. But Hana feels more comfortable with silence. The evening is still glorious. Every building looks elegantly somber, the outlines of the trees in formation like guards on duty.

It’s nice to be back in her studio apartment. Rockville is more than home. It’s the perfect refuge for her quiet bewilderment.

Everyone is alone at the ‌heart of the earth … 12Her and the trees and the asphalt desecrated by the cars taking solitude out for a ride.

When he stops the car, he shakes her hand. Like a year and a half ago, as if he were saying goodbye to a man not a woman. She feels it. What is this? Are you flirting with him? she asks herself critically, as she goes up the stairs.

She can’t sleep that night. She listens to the silence, staring at the ceiling. At around three in the morning she gets up and goes over to Nick, the computer, waiting on standby. She furiously types a page of disconnected thoughts and the process of writing arouses her. She feels she wants to touch herself, and she does so without any sense of shame. She plays with herself but she can’t reach the peak of pleasure she feels is there waiting, and so she stops, tired out. She readjusts her summer pajamas. She apologizes to herself, turns Nick off, and goes back to bed, waiting for sleep that refuses to embrace her.

The next day, before going to the bookstore, she scribbles through the words ‘Call O’Connor!’ on the note in the kitchen, leaving only the exclamation mark, and goes out, whistling.

A few days later, Jonida is over at her place for the weekend. Hana gives her the lowdown on her dinner with O’Connor. Her niece is wearing pink pajamas from Victoria’s Secret, with ‘HOT’ embroidered over her behind. The chest-hugging top is bright orange, with pink lace on the shoulder straps. Jonida’s hair is bunched into two braids like Pippi Longstocking.

They’ve just finished eating. Hana made an Indian dish, basmati rice with eggplant, which she’s very proud of. She’s trying out recipes from around the world, with occasionally disastrous results. Jonida stares hard at her.

‘Go on, tell me more. That can’t be it. At least I hope it’s not,’ she pleads.