Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Anatoli’s puzzled frown speaks volumes; he has no idea what she’s talking about. Alessia continues, warming to her subject, “You are a man from another century. From another time. You and all the men like you. In other countries your Neanderthal attitude to women would be unacceptable.”
He shakes his head. “You have been in the West too long, carissima.”
“I like the West. My grandmother was from England.”
“Is that why you went to London?”
“No.”
“Why, then?”
“Anatoli, you know why. I want to make it clear to you. I don’t want to marry you.”
“You will come around, Alessia.” He waves his hand as if to brush off her rejection as trivial.
Alessia huffs, feeling aggrieved but feeling brave, too. After all, what can he do while he’s driving? “I want to choose who I marry. It’s a simple enough request.”
“You would dishonor your father?”
Alessia flushes. Of course her attitude—her defiance, her willfulness—brings great shame to her family.
She turns back to the window, but in her mind this conversation is not over. Perhaps she can appeal to her father once more.
She allows herself a moment to think about Maxim, and her grief rises, raw and real. Her bravado evaporates, and her mood plummets once more into despair. Her heart is beating but empty.
Will she ever see him again?
* * *
Somewhere in Austria, Anatoli stops at the services again, but this time only for gas. He insists Alessia accompany him into the store. Reluctantly she trails after him, oblivious to her surroundings.
Back on the autobahn, he announces, “We’ll be in Slovenia soon. When we get to Croatia, you’ll need to go into the trunk.”
“Why?”
“Because Croatia is not part of the Schengen Agreement, and there’s a border.”
Alessia blanches. She hates being in the trunk. She loathes the dark.
“When we stopped for gas, I bought more batteries for the flashlight.”
She glances at Anatoli, and he catches her eye. “I know you don’t like it. But it can’t be helped.” He turns his attention back to the road. “And it shouldn’t be for so long this time. When we stopped in Dunkirk, I thought you were unconscious from carbon monoxide poisoning or something.” He frowns, and if Alessia is not mistaken, she would swear he’s concerned. This afternoon at the restaurant, he had regarded her with warmth.
“What is it?” he asks, snapping her out of her reverie.
“I’m not used to concern from you,” she states. “Only violence.”
Anatoli’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Alessia, if you don’t do as you’re told, there are consequences. I expect you to be a traditional Gheg wife. That’s all you need to know. I think you have become too opinionated while you’ve been in London.”
She doesn’t answer him but turns away and stares out at the passing countryside, nursing her misery as they drive on into the afternoon.
* * *
Our flight lands in Tirana at 20:45 local time in pouring, icy rain. Tom and I are traveling with hand baggage only, so we go straight through customs and emerge into a modern, well-lit airport terminal. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but the place looks like any small airport in Europe, with all the facilities one might need.
Our rental car, on the other hand, is a revelation. My travel agent had warned me that there were no prestige cars for hire, so I find myself at the wheel of a car whose make I have never heard of: a Dacia. It’s the most basic and analog car I’ve ever driven, though it does have a USB port in the radio so we can plug in my iPhone and use Google Maps. I’m surprised to find myself liking the car; it’s practical and sturdy. Tom christens it “Dacy,” and after some negotiation at the exit to the car park and a small bribe to the parking attendant, we are off.
Driving at night—in torrential rain, on the wrong side of the road, in a country where private car ownership was unheard of until the mid-1990s—is a challenge. But forty minutes later, Dacy and Google Maps get us in one piece to the Plaza hotel in the center of Tirana.
“Fuck, that was hairy,” Tom announces as we pull up in front of the hotel.
“Damn right.”
“Though I’ve driven in worse conditions,” he mutters. I turn off the ignition, knowing that he’s making an oblique reference to his time in Afghanistan. “How far did you say this girl’s hometown is?”
“Her name’s Alessia,” I growl, for what feels like the tenth time, and wonder about the wisdom of agreeing to let Tom accompany me. “I think it’s about a three-hour drive.” He’s a good man in a pinch, but diplomacy has never been his strong point.
“Sorry, old man. Alessia.” He taps his forehead. “I’ve got it. I hope the rain holds off tomorrow. Let’s check in and find somewhere to have a drink.”