Elvira Dones - Sworn Virgin

‘Nothing is normal between us, so what’s the problem?’ he says, coming to her aid. ‘Let’s go, Hana. We’re not having this tug of war just out of friendship. There’s more to it. Shall we try and find out what there is? You decide. Are we going to talk about it all night, or shall we go? It’s been a while since I last made love too, if you really want to know.’

‘How come?’

Patrick doesn’t answer. Before getting up he silently swills down the last of the wine in his glass.

‘The bathroom is at the end on the left if you need it.’

Hana goes into the enormous room. She doesn’t look around, she goes straight to the mirror. She sees herself reflected dressed in red, in a tight knitted skirt. She steps out without even rinsing her face, which is burning. Then she goes into the sitting room, where Patrick has lit a small table lamp and lots of candles.

He sits her down on the sofa and hugs her. Then he kisses her on her forehead.

Patrick’s hands slowly stroke her nipples, then slide down towards her hips, where they come to rest. Hana takes a while before she lets herself go. He caresses and kisses her, while she tries to figure out whether she likes what he’s doing. She’s terrified of reciprocating his gestures, so she grabs hold of the sheet and feels safer.

‘You’re not drowning,’ he whispers.

He realizes Hana is still not feeling much, so he moves down and gently opens the lips of her vagina with his tongue. He plays with her, teasing her clitoris, doing all those things she’s seen in the films but this time she’s beginning to sense the pleasure, then she feels it take her over. Patrick readjusts his body until the two forms fit together perfectly, and waits until she’s ready before slowly sliding into her.

He carries on kissing her, warm and relaxed, happy even. Sitting up against the bedstead, he pulls her to him and she rests her head on his shoulder.

‘It’s been a year since I last made love.’

‘And I’m free of this thing,’ Hana says, amazed, smelling his skin and wondering what happens now. He hugs her closer.

‘So?’ he jokes. ‘We’re free of this thing together. Are you happy now?’

‘How come you didn’t make love for a year?’

He kisses her on the temple.

‘I’ll tell you another time, ok?’

Silence.

‘But I didn’t reach orgasm …’

‘It’ll happen. Next time we’ll work on it.’

‘It’s not work,’ Hana says, furrowing her brow.

‘No, it’s not. You’re right.’

‘Patrick?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you like it?’

‘I think so; I really think so.’

‘Swear.’

‘God, you talk a lot!’ Patrick laughs, still holding her close, while Hana begins to feel awkward. She tries to free herself.

‘Stay here,’ he whispers. ‘There’s no hurry. There’s absolutely no hurry.’

And he falls asleep.

She only pulls away from his embrace when Patrick’s breathing becomes regular. She dresses and leaves his apartment. She drives home, concentrating fiercely on the road, and smokes the cigarette she has been saving for this after .

The night is deserted and strangely slow. But she is not at all. She feels alert and, as soon as she gets home, she has another smoke. Now she knows she has a life to live, whatever happens from now on. Before day comes, she’ll sleep. Before any fear creeps back. She doesn’t think it will. She hates her fear.

She has felt her body react; she felt it pulse.

‘Welcome back, body,’ she says out loud.

She throws her cigarette butt out of the window.

It’s good to know she’s alive.

I am grateful beyond words to each and every person involved in the delicate process of shaping this story in translation from another language.

First to Clarissa Botsford: the deepest gratitude for loving my story in its original Italian, for deciding to translate it wonderfully at her own time and risk, and for her relentless search for a publisher. Clarissa’s determination not to give up until she found one was my and this novel’s good fortune.

I also extend grateful thanks to two other translators without whom Sworn Virgin would not be complete: Ruth Christie, who translated Nâzim Hikmet’s poems from the Turkish, and John Hodgson, who translated Ismail Kadare’s foreword from the Albanian.

I cannot thank And Other Stories and Stefan Tobler enough for believing in my novel — and indeed for being crazy enough to believe in literature in translation in the first place.

And a special thank you to Sophie Lewis for her meticulous work: I could not have dreamed of a better editor.

Elvira Dones

‌1 The vast, infinite life . From part 1, section 8 of ‘Quatrains’ by Turkish poet Nâzim Hikmet, translated by Ruth Christie and Richard McKane ( Beyond the Walls , Anvil Press, 2002).

‌2 Tungjatë, bre burrë. ‘Well, man, how are you?’ (A greeting typically heard in northern Albania.)

‌3 Goodbye, my brother sea . From another poem by Nâzim Hikmet. A talisman text for Hana, lines from it recur in several places in Sworn Virgin .

Goodbye my Brother Sea

So we go as we came,

goodbye, my brother sea.

We took a few of your pebbles,

a little of your deep blue salt,

a little of your infinity,

a tiny bit of your light

and of your sorrow.

You told us many tales

of seafaring fate.

We have a little more hope

a little more courage.

So we go as we came,

goodbye, my brother sea.

(Translated by Ruth Christie, 2013)

‌4 mixing Albanian Gheg with American English . Gheg is the dialect spoken in northern Albania.

‌5 the kulla that was slowly going to ruin . A typical stone-walled ‘tower’ house of the Albanian north, a kulla (plural: kullë ) is a family home that also functioned as a stronghold, with narrow windows and thick walls.

‌6 ku ku moj nanë. A Gheg dialect exclamation expressing surprise, shame, perhaps a certain disapproval. Somewhat similar to ‘what is the world coming to?’

‌7 a Marubi portrait . Pietro Marubi was an Italian painter and early photographer who supported Garibaldi and emigrated to Albania in 1850. Some of his portraits of Albanians were published in the London Illustrated News .

‌8 It’s not a heart. From another poem by Nâzim Hikmet:

Steamboat

It’s not a heart, I say, it’s a sandal of buffalo leather,

it tramps and tramps

it never falls apart

but treads the stony paths.

A steamboat passes in front of Varna,

‘follow it, silver strings of the Black Sea,’

a boat on its way to the Bosphorus.

Nâzim caresses the boat very gently,

and burns his hands …

(Translation by Ruth Christie, 2013)

‌9 The shilte are in a mess on the floor. Shilte are traditional mattresses or wide cushions for sitting or lying on.

‌10 Don’t you city people call us malokë? A derogatory epithet suggesting mountain provincialism, roughly translatable as ‘yokels.’ Among the mountain folk themselves it can also be used as a term of endearment.

‌11 the rule of the Kanun. A set of traditional, orally transmitted Albanian laws, which were codified in the 15th century but only written and published in the 20th century. The Kanun remains a point of reference in the mountainous areas of north Albania.

‌12 Everyone is alone at the heart of the earth. From a poem by Italian poet Salvatore Quasimodo.