I don’t greet him as I walk inside, I don’t want to, either that or I’m unable to form words. There are none. There is only a smell, his smell, he is lying in bed beneath the blankets, his eyes fixed on the window flickering in turn with the shadows of people’s footsteps and the lights of passing cars.
He has wet himself and defecated in the bed; in places the blanket is soaking wet, in others hardened with green-brown shit. I take the burger outside, wrap it in the bag with the preserves, the candies, and savory snacks that I bought for him. The pieces of fruit I leave where they are.
I go back into the room holding my breath, take my suitcases from above the wardrobe, and begin throwing my stuff into them, clothes and other things that the living skeleton on the bed hasn’t touched—the folder I was given in the hospital, important papers, a few photographs of Ajshe and the children.
I don’t look at him, but I know he isn’t looking at me either, and it means the end of everything.
I open the door, take the notebook from his plastic bag, and stuff it in among the food, and walk a short distance; people are watching, I cross the street, someone asks if I need help carrying everything, and I check into a nearby hotel after which I pick up a roasted ear of corn from a nearby stall, which I gobble down outside with terrific speed, though I don’t feel like eating.
It crosses my mind that I don’t have much money left, then I return to my hotel room and take a bath, I feel dirty, I scrub the backs of my knees, in between my fingers and toes, my armpits and back, and immediately feel better.
I lie on the bed and turn on the television. On the news there’s a story about a man who was sentenced for the murder of his wife because she had tried to run away from him. Justice was done, I tell myself, and switch off the television. I send my boss a text message telling him I have stomach pain and can’t come into work tomorrow. I sit up on the edge of the bed, then walk around the room a few times, take out the folder and his notebook, place them on the desk in the corner of the room, and switch on the reading lamp.
There they are, the countless reports from the medical staff, endless prescriptions, and treatment plans. Then his papers, his journal, all the lies contained within them. A whole world in a few dozen pages, some of which look like they were written by a child who has just learned to read.
I gather the treats I have bought on the table. I read one entry, eating my burger, then read another and eat a bag of nuts, then a third and eat the chocolates, I read more and eat more, and halfway through it all I think it might have been better to leave this food for him because now I feel sick, but it’s not an option any longer, just as it isn’t possible that there will be anything left in the morning, either to read or to eat.
When I reach the end of the journal, I vomit.
I wipe my mouth on the corner of a towel, wash my face, stuff the empty wrappers and boxes into a plastic bag, and throw it out of the window. Then I brush my teeth and lie down.
Hours pass before I fall asleep to a thought: our lives should have ended that day, the last time we saw each other, it really would have been better for us not to see the next dawn.
15
PRISTINA, 2004
In the morning I write another letter to Ajshe.
Hi,
I’m writing to you because I can’t not write. You all must think that I am a bad man. Maybe I am. Maybe I became one without noticing, maybe it crept up on me like cancer. And I hit, though I wasn’t supposed to be a man who hits his family.
I have done terrible things, things that I thought I’d learned from. But I didn’t learn, instead I did them again. And again. And again. It’s because I forgot the consequences of my previous actions, forgot what this guilt feels like, the regret, the shame.
I wish as fervently as one can wish for anything that you would visit and I could see you all again, because not a day goes by when I don’t think about you. But I understand how unreasonable a demand this is, how heavy and inappropriate, and that’s why I am calling it a wish, specifically a wish. And I won’t apologize, I won’t insult you by asking for forgiveness, because I know that a man this shameful doesn’t deserve it.
Isn’t it strange how—again and again, as if to humiliate themselves—people fool themselves into thinking they can get time back somehow? How time only becomes important once it has passed?
A.
I slide the letter into my back pocket, leave my suitcases at the hotel, and set off in search of another place to live. I pass Behxhet’s house and throw the notebook over the gate; it slaps against the concrete floor like an apostate’s Quran.
I quickly find another room, not too far from the previous one and not in much better condition. The house is built on a mountainside and has three floors, the middle of which is a unit entirely for me. It has everything I need: a bed, a wardrobe, a desk and chair, a small fridge, a chest of drawers, one cooking plate, a few dishes, and a small pot and pan to prepare food. On the ground floor is a spacious garage and an empty business space.
The house is slightly farther from the city center, in the so-called gypsy neighborhood, but now I have my own toilet—with its own entrance—built beneath the front stairs leading up to the third-floor terrace. I’ll have to buy a pair of sandals for that. My room used to be a storage space, and it is relatively dark, though the view from the small window reaches thousands upon thousands of buildings, even parts of the downtown area, and so its dimness doesn’t bother me.
My new landlord lives in Sweden with his family, this is their “summer house,” he tells me as he shows me around; the first time I spoke to him was only an hour ago after calling a number I noted down on my route earlier. His two teenage sons slouch impatiently in plastic chairs, headphones over their ears, almost as if they don’t care at all about what is happening around them. They don’t greet me, don’t offer me their hands, as young men should to their elders, but the mother of the family is pretty as a butterfly.
Before long we are sitting at a table on the terrace, which feels much higher up than my room, though the difference is only a matter of meters. Now I can see almost the whole of Pristina, like a pile of loose bricks, an innumerable amount of unfinished red-roofed houses, new ones constantly appearing like a rash that spreads but never heals.
The wife offers us tea, the man chain-smokes while looking worried, and I tell him I too have lived abroad for a while. In France, I say. I don’t know why I lie about it, or about the fact that I am not married and don’t yet have children of my own. I suppose it’s because I guess it’s more sensible under the circumstances.
“My daughter studies French!” the man enthuses and calls his daughter, who then appears in the doorway carrying a compact of face powder.
Fortunately the girl is so shy that she doesn’t speak a word to me but simply grins coyly and turns back inside as though she were uncomfortable at the sound of my awkward haw-hawing, which even to me sounds crazy.
“So, while you’re staying here, I’d like you to keep an eye on the house,” says the man.
“That’s no problem, I guarantee you,” I reply and try to force a more natural smile to my face, without much success.
“There’s nothing valuable inside, only the modest sofa beds, some old crockery, a small television,” he lists and invites me to walk around the interior with him. He stresses that there’s no point buying anything expensive here; we stay here at most one month in the year, he says, back in Sweden we have a flat-screen television and the children each have a room of their own, we have a large apartment near the center of Stockholm, paid for by the government, in a district where the children go to good schools, learn Swedish and other foreign languages, English, French, German, whatever they choose.
“I’m sure it sounds wild to people here. But we’ve lived there for so long, almost twelve years, the children were little when we fled, the el
dest was four and the youngest was only one year old, none of them has any memories from here,” he explains so slowly and in such a quiet voice that I’m not sure whether to interpret it as a sign of familiarity or disappointment.
“Is everything clear?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you. Everything is fine. I will pay the rent on the first day of every month to your cousin who lives about ten houses from here.”
“That’s right. Fifty euros. Does that sound okay?”
“Yes. Would you mind if I sat up here on the terrace while you’re away? That view is so beautiful.”
“By all means,” he replies jovially. “That’s why I bought this house in the first place. I tell people I have the most spectacular view in all of Pristina.”
* * *
—
I move in that same evening, and a few days before the family’s departure the man changes the locks on the doors upstairs. As they are about to leave for the airport, I hear the elder son, speaking in a deliberately loud voice, talking to his father, who tries to hush him.
“Dad, are you sure about this? I don’t like that man, he doesn’t seem very trustworthy. What if he trashes the apartment, invites his friends over, lets them stay here and live a life of luxury at our expense?”
They argue about me, and it makes me sad because, compared to other places where I’ve lived, this is heaven and I would never betray their trust. And so the father knocks at my door, and as soon as I open it I tell him I heard what his son said, he is an intelligent young man, it’s true that anything could happen, but I humbly ask you to trust me, I will look after this house as if it were my own, I swear I will, you can send your cousin to check up on things whenever you want, yes, anything could happen, anything is possible, but as long as I am here I will keep my eyes and ears open, and I will ask you if anything comes to mind and inform you if anything happens.
At this he takes me by the shoulder and offers me his hand, which I grip as firmly as he does mine, and when they finally leave, step into their taxi and drive off, I walk a few hundred meters down the dirt track to the road along which my route takes me. I buy some groceries, a new SIM card, and a stamp, which I stick to the envelope with the letter I wrote to Ajshe that morning. Inside the envelope I put a note with my new telephone number and take it to the post office.
That evening I make a pot of soup with tomato, onion, and paprika. I season it with ajvar and Vegeta and eat it with a fresh white roll that costs only ten cents at the bakery.
At night packs of stray dogs gather across the mountain, and they make a terrible racket, barking and howling in hunger. Where do they spend the day, I wonder, and I feel so bad for them that I take out some scraps. But when they come, they start fighting over the food, and one of the dogs bites another on the shoulder blade with such untrammeled rage that the loser runs away limping.
I try to shoo the dog that has brazenly claimed the food for itself by banging on the window and growling angrily from behind the glass, but the dog just growls back at me, its yellow teeth bared, trickles of thick, frothing spittle along its scarred muzzle. I haven’t seen anything this menacing for a long time, and when the dog finally disappears I sigh with relief, try to calm my pulse and get to sleep, but the sight keeps me awake long into the night. A dog is a truly terrifying creature.
The following morning I take a hose and rinse the dried blood from the concrete and swear I will never leave food out again, I even apologize to the dog that got attacked and suffered so horribly. It makes me feel a little better. I didn’t want that dog to get hurt; I only meant to do good.
* * *
—
A few weeks later, I receive a text message from Ajshe, and when I read what she has written, I want to smash the telephone against the wall.
Hello Arsim. I’ve talked to my children. They don’t want to see you, they said they don’t have a father, and I have no need or desire to correct them. You are right, you don’t deserve forgiveness. But neither do you deserve us in your life, you don’t deserve to feel such happiness, or any kind of joy. It’s best if you don’t write to us ever again, we are nothing anymore.
I spend my free time lying in bed, staring at the bare walls with dry, stinging eyes. It lasts for weeks; at times I agree with her—they are probably better off without me—and at other times I’m so angry that I can’t find a moment’s peace. Doesn’t she understand that I did try my hardest, that I supported them for a good time? Doesn’t that mean anything to her, isn’t that something? That I helped take them to safety, that I took my share of the responsibility when they needed me the most? I took care of things, I worked hard, bought them stuff they couldn’t live without, I visited the children’s nurseries and schools, built up a life from nothing. Doesn’t she realize that fleeing was scarier for me than for her? That the language they spoke there was as foreign to me as to our baby?
One evening I receive a call from an unknown number.
“Hello,” she begins.
“Ajshe.”
Then she informs me, all in the same breath, as though reading from a sheet of paper, that she wants to see me the next day, she tells me at what time and in which café we will meet.
“This is important; be there at one o’clock,” she says and hangs up without giving me the chance to suggest another time, to tell her I’m actually at work and can’t just take time off whenever I want.
Despite my agitation I manage to call my boss, a confused conversation in which I lie, telling him I have such an extreme toothache that I’m about to faint with pain and that I have to get the tooth extracted tomorrow.
“Okay then,” he replies with a deep sigh. “But if these sudden absences persist, you don’t need to come back. Is that clear?” he continues and hangs up.
* * *
—
That night it pours with rain. Water slaps the concrete like hands against young cheeks, and I cannot sleep. It’s still drizzling in the morning, and the rain finally stops just before I have to leave. I put on a suit, self-assured, but when I arrive at the café well ahead of time and order a small macchiato, I think maybe I should have left the jacket at home as it’s far too big for me; when I sit down it droops unflatteringly at the sides and the bulbous shoulder pads make me look like a box, which only increases my sense of awkwardness. It seems I have lost weight, because only a short while ago the suit didn’t feel big at all.
I take off the jacket and fold it over the armrest, from which it falls to the moist ground. As I reach out to pick it up, I manage to knock the table, spilling my coffee. The waiters chat to one another as I dry my jacket and the table, then they chuckle, probably at me.
I have to wait for Ajshe for quite a while, but when she approaches behind my back, there is no mistaking her. I would recognize her cautious steps anywhere, at any time, and on any surface. She stops momentarily, presumably to look around, and I don’t dare turn, and a moment later she continues walking in such a way that her steps now sound fainter, by the final three steps she is creeping, then almost sinking down into the chair opposite, places her bag in her lap, calls to the waiter, and orders herself a large macchiato.
I expected us to hug or at least shake hands after all that’s happened, but perhaps this is easier for both of us. During the night I’d hoped she would bring the kids to our meeting, but at the same time I had prepared for not seeing them; perhaps this is best for them too. Sometimes it’s better not to remember where you come from, who your father is.
Ajshe looks intimidating. She has wrapped her head in a white scarf, her all-black dress and long-sleeved sweater cover her body, and on her feet is a pair of smart ankle boots. She doesn’t look like herself. Or maybe it’s the other way around; now she really does look like herself, finally.
I’m unable to say anything, I can’t look her in the eye. The waiter brings Ajshe’s coffee, and it fee
ls as though the whole world is observing us, knowing who we are, what we are, where we’ve come from. Once the waiter has gone, Ajshe digs into her bag, and then I glance at her eyes: they are no longer brown but blue, and when she slides the opened folder in front of me, full of papers in a foreign language, and a ballpoint pen, I no longer feel anything at all.
As Ajshe explains the matter in the tone and manner of a lawyer, her gaze remains fixed on the paperwork, where there are a number of green Post-it notes indicating lines below which I should put my signature. There is a frightful number of papers, and I don’t bother listening to what she has to say about them, let alone to read them myself, but I assume they are about our marriage and the custody of our children.
I am not remotely bitter or angry about letting her bring up the children. I guess on some level I know and believe that she is a better parent than I could ever be, than I have ever been. And I am not jealous either, because I don’t know and don’t particularly care to know whether Ajshe wants to find another partner whom she could live with. Maybe not, because her shoulders simply couldn’t bear the weight of such shame. But it wouldn’t feel bad at all, in fact I wish her only the best, even though she wrote to me saying I don’t deserve any kind of happiness.
Once I have signed the papers, she places the folder back into her bag and only now takes her first sip of coffee. At this point our eyes meet for the first time, almost by accident, and behind the blue irises I can make out her dark brown eyes, scorched with a mixture of pity and loathing.
When she asks the waiter for the bill and pulls out her thick purse, I let out my first word, and it is “No.”
“No, absolutely not,” I add, place my wallet on the table, and gesture to the waiter, who nods in our direction and a while later returns to our table rather confused, then in a flash Ajshe unclips her purse, takes out a coin, hands it to the waiter, and tells him to keep the change.
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