Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 142043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)
Alessia starts laying the table. “I told you. Only women cook here.”
* * *
Breakfast is a delicious fresh-from-the-oven feast. I’m on my fourth bubble bread roll with butter and berry jam and my second coffee when we hear the front door slam. A few moments later, Mr. Demachi appears wearing a somber suit and matching expression that gives nothing away. Shpresa leaps up from the table and starts to fill the coffeepot with water.
Perhaps she needs a larger pot.
Alessia rises from the table, reaches for a plate, and lays it at the head of the table with a knife. Demachi sits down, and it’s obvious this is normal—he’s been waited on, hand and foot, for his entire life.
Um… So have I. But not by my mother—or my sister for that matter.
“Mirëmëngjes,” he grunts, looking directly at me as inscrutable as ever.
“My father is wishing you a good morning,” Alessia translates and looks amused.
Why does she find this funny?
“Good morning.” I give my future father-in-law a nod.
He starts speaking, and Alessia and her mother listen, enthralled by his deep melodious voice as he explains something to them. I just wish I knew what he was saying.
Eventually, Alessia turns to me, her eyes wide as if she doesn’t quite believe what she’s about to tell me. “My father, he has arranged our marriage.”
Already?
It’s my turn to look incredulous. “Tell me.”
“All you need is your passport.”
We gaze at each other, and I think the same thought runs through her head and mine.
This sounds too easy.
My eyes meet his, and he raises his chin in an arrogant don’t-fuck-with-me glare as if he’s daring me to argue.
“He met the clerk of the, um…civil status…office. I don’t know the precise translation,” Alessia says. “They met for coffee this morning. They agreed on everything.”
On a Sunday? Is it that simple?
“Okay. When?” I keep my voice measured, as I don’t want to rile the old goat. He has a short fuse—almost as bad as my friend Tom’s.
“Saturday.”
A frisson of doubt trickles down my spine. “Okay,” I answer, and my hesitancy must give me away. Mrs. Demachi glances anxiously from me to her husband, then to her daughter.
Alessia says something to her dad, and he shouts back at her, startling us all. She pales and hangs her head but peeks at me as I push back my chair.
He shouldn’t speak to her like that.
“The clerk and he are good friends,” Alessia says hurriedly. “Old friends. I think I know him. I’ve met him before. My father says it’s all arranged.” She’s obviously used to his outbursts, but she, too, seems uncertain.
As am I. This arrangement seems far too convenient.
Perplexed, I settle in my chair once more, not wanting to provoke him. “What do I need to do?”
“We must meet with the clerk tomorrow at the bashkia—I mean, town hall—to answer some questions and complete some paperwork.” She shrugs, looking as troubled as I feel.
Okay. Let’s talk to the clerk.
As I stand under the rather rudimentary shower and wash my hair, I have a complete crisis of conscience. A quick internet search on my phone has told me that it’s far more complicated to marry as a foreign national in Albania than Alessia’s father seems to think. There are forms to be completed, then translated and notarized—and that’s just a quick and dirty glance of what’s required.
What has her father organized?
How has he managed to circumvent the usual protocols?
If he has, are they legal?
And if they’re not, how can I go ahead with a wedding that’s probably not legal to appease a proud, impatient old man? I know he’ll be my father-in-law, but what he’s asking is too much. All his talk of honor yesterday accounts for nothing if he treats his daughter this way.
And I’m in a bind. I can’t leave without Alessia, and I know the old bastard won’t let me take her with me. She needs a passport and a visa to return to the UK, and I have no idea where or how we get one. Probably somewhere in Tirana. I don’t know.
Though he did say she was my problem now.
Maybe I should take him at his word.
I switch off the shower, resentful and bewildered by the situation I’ve found myself in—and by the large puddle of water I’ve left on the bathroom floor. It does not speak well of Albanian plumbing. I snatch a towel and quickly dry myself, then drag on my clothes and open the door.
Alessia is standing outside, brandishing what looks like a high-tech shower-cleaning device. I laugh, surprised and pleased to see her, and I’m transported back to a time when she was in my flat, wearing her frightful nylon housecoat, and I was surreptitiously watching her… and falling in love.
She grins and places her fingers against her lips.
“Does he know you’re here?” I whisper.