Helena KADARE
PROSE
MISUNDERSTANDING
It had stopped raining and the skies
had cleared as so often happens after a summer storm. The trees
and facades of the houses across the street reflected the rays
of the late afternoon sun, which had now lost some of its heat.
Its presence could be felt in the air like a warm and soothing
embrace. Outside the open window everything was warm, soft and
tender. The raindrops still quivered on the wet foliage of the
high poplars.
It seemed as if that June afternoon would
never end. So thought Martin as he sat on the sofa in the living
room, feasting his eyes on the view through the glass door to
the balcony. From this position he could see a part of the city,
the part he loved most: the park with the children’s playground
and beyond it the Lana river flowing beneath the high poplars.
While contemplating the view, Martin
turned his head two or three times as if expecting a call. But
no call came. He returned to his tranquil contemplation of that
June afternoon which was still giving no sign of drawing to a
close.
After the ritual bath and change of clothes
which always followed his return from business trips, he would
let his mind wander and do absolutely nothing but listen for
the familiar echo of his wife’s footsteps. She had taken
the children out to play and would soon be back. The two of them
would have coffee together and discuss all sorts of things. Every
time he was away on business it was this moment he longed for
most.
In the kitchen, he now heard the noise
of the tap which was interrupted by the clatter of china. He
stood up, then sat down again, undecided for a moment, his eyes
wandering to the door and then back to the contours of the poplars,
the tips of which sparkled with raindrops. The sight was a refreshment
to his soul. He imagined his wife’s smooth hands washing
the dishes in the sink, and somewhere, hovering in the depths
of his being, deep under the relaxation he was savouring, he
could sense a breath of isolation.
He had returned from the mountains in
the north only a few hours earlier and they had had no time to
talk except for a few brief words of greeting and the usual inquiry
as to how the children were. She would now have finished the
dishes (it was customary for a woman to see that the dishes were
always done immediately) and would be making afternoon coffee
as usual. They would sit down to drink at the open door of the
balcony where the two large potted fig trees had been placed
to get some fresh air. He had so much to tell her and she was
a good listener, but more than anything, he enjoyed listening
to her talk. When talking, he always came directly to the point,
whereas Vojsava was different. She had a much more lively manner
and always a hint of humour. She was gifted at telling stories
and knew how to spice up her conversation with amusing observations
and with vivid gestures and facial expressions. Although they
had been married for fourteen years, one of the best elements
of their marriage remained these moments when the two of them
were together and when in the course of their seemingly endless
conversations he would smell the fragrance of her hair. There
were so many things he loved, but somehow he never managed to
confide them to his wife. She would be coming in any moment now...
Martin’s eyes turned to the calendar
on the wall. He was tempted to smile at the little mark she had
made in red pencil to note the day of his departure. Their calendar
was full of such marks. "When we are old and retired what
are you going to note on the calendar?" he would tease her.
"We will always be together then, and I won’t need
to make any notes," she would reply.
Martin picked up a book lying open on
the table and tried to read for a moment. Once Vojsava has finished
her work we’ll go out for a walk, he thought.
Outside, the June afternoon was still
mild and warm. The sun had descended behind the thick foliage
of the poplars which now took on a golden glow.
For a moment it seemed as if the work
in the kitchen was over. Martin put his book down but realized
on hearing water flowing in the sink again that she was not finished.
He frowned as if from a slight ache and had the impression that
she had splashed water all over his face. He relaxed once more
and began observing the flight of a long-winged insect at the
window. He smiled and pushed the drapes to one side to help the
little creature escape. From the street came the voices of passers-by
and the cries of children playing in the park. Summer had indeed
arrived. This was more apparent than ever from the animation
in the streets on that June afternoon full of life, hues and
odours. He realized that he was deeply attached not only to his
home, his wife and children but also to the city, its inhabitants
and to his street. A sense of confidence welled up within him
at the thought that his was a successful marriage that was destined
to last. Whenever there was talk of failed marriages, he was
tempted to believe that such things only happened in books. After
all, without unhappy marriages, there would perhaps be fewer
novels. Who would write the history of Anna Karenina? Is it the
happy families that resemble one another, or the unhappy ones?
Vojsava must have finished her work by
now. He closed his eyes and imagined the nape of her neck as
she bent over the sink, the parting of her hair, and waited quietly,
listening for her step. Perhaps he should get up and make the
coffee himself, but the thought of her making fun of him or telling
him to sit down made him change his mind. After all, it only
takes a couple of minutes to make coffee, he thought.
The telephone rang in the hall. He got
up to answer it. It was for Vojsava. She heard him call her name
and came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.
"It’s a good thing you answered
it, at least," she said, giving him a mildly reproachful
glance.
For some reason, he had the feeling that
something was wrong. But what exactly? He could not interpret
the meaning of that glance. He left the hall and forgot the matter.
The noise in the kitchen had come to an end and the two of them
would soon be together to drink their coffee and watch the sun
descend peacefully behind the poplars. He now felt that he could
stand no further delay. He suddenly felt impatient. She must
come any moment now.
The telephone conversation continued
in the hall. He heard his wife’s sweet voice as she talked
to one of her friends, and smiled instinctively. There was something
refreshing in her voice, like the voices of school children talking
during class. He had often thought of telling her this but somehow
he never had. It reminded him of the day at the office when some
of his colleagues had begun exchanging anecdotes about their
marriages, some out of pure boredom and others to parade their
excess baggage of jokes. They were the same dull anecdotes told
everywhere when the subject arose. Martin had said nothing.
Vojsava finally finished her conversation.
On her way down the hall, she gave her husband a glance as he
sat reading his book. She was irritated at the very sight of
him.
He never thinks about me, she thought.
As if I didn’t find books more interesting than washing
the dishes. She realized that the frustration which had taken
hold of her was there for good. She turned the tap on full, wondering
whether she was not being unfair to him. The doubt bothered her.
I can understand how he feels. He has
just gotten back from work and is tired and I am the one who
should go to him. But he could at least have spoken to
me. It wouldn’t have cost him anything. Are there no words
for such occasions?
Martin heard the noise of the tap in
the kitchen and felt that he had been wronged. There was a limit
to everything. He rose and went to the kitchen door. There he
stood for a moment not knowing quite what to do. Weren’t
the dishes finished yet? he thought. Wait another second, he
said to himself, she’ll be finished any minute.
The dishes were finished and she was
wiping off the white tiles around the sink. Seeing the nape of
her neck as she bent over the sink, he had an impulse to go and
give her a kiss, but something stopped him. He wanted to make
some sort of tender gesture, but he was paralysed. I don’t
know where to start, he thought.
He noticed an open notebook on the buffet
and a ballpoint pen next to it. Vojsava’s handwriting was
more vertical and legible than his. She studied when the children
in their beds, he thought to himself, casting his mind fondly
back to the evenings when she would read until late at night,
when all the housework had been done and the children were sound
asleep.
The June afternoon gently enveloped everything
in its warmth and sensuality. The emotion he felt seemed to penetrate
every cell of his body. He was filled with a longing for his
wife who was still at work with her back to him.
She sensed his presence in the mirror
over the sink. He has come in here because he wants something
and is afraid to say what it is. He is not as conceited as all
that but he still only thinks of himself. Oh God!
The water poured out of the tap, a symbol
of her anger.
She’s finished, he thought. Now
she is drying her hands. He could go over and give her a hug,
as he often did, and let her interpret it however she wanted.
How silly to hide his love, he thought to himself. All the talk
about women, about the daily rut, boasting about one’s independence
and making fun of the others who were tied to their wives’
apron strings.
His whole being shuddered at the impetuous
ringing of the doorbell. Who could it be at this hour of the
day? he wondered, angry at the uninvited guests who were breaking
into their afternoon without any right to do so. Though it was
quite a normal time of day for visits, he considered the arrival
at the door, whoever it might be, as an imposition. Vojsava opened
the door.
He heard familiar voices in the hall,
the usual words of greeting, but could not make out who it was.
"Is Martin not at home?" inquired
the visitors with the self-confidence of those who are certain
that they will be welcome wherever they go.
"Oh yes, he’s here. Won’t
you come in?" Vojsava replied without betraying any hint
of annoyance. Martin sensed the weariness in her voice.
"He has just got back from a business
trip and ..." Vojsava was always at a loss for words when
she was in a predicament.
"Oh, good. We’re in luck. Hang
your sweater on the coat-stand, Pauline."
It’s Farouk, thought Martin. At
that instant he felt exhausted from his long trip and the waiting
for Vojsava.
It was indeed Farouk with his wife. They
had met two years ago at the coast where they had shared a summer
house. Martin had later seen them several times on the street
and they had gone together for coffee. It was not long ago. They
had always promised to visit one another but, as always in such
cases, promises are easily made but difficult to keep. As a result,
they had never exchanged visits at all.
"Come on in. This way," said
Vojsava, showing them into the living room. "Well, you finally
found the time to drop by. We have always been ..." Once
again she lost her train of thought.
Farouk and his wife followed their hostess
cheerfully into the living room and began complementing her on
the decor before they had even sat down: the beautiful view from
the balcony, the well-tended flowers...
Martin moved awkwardly through the room,
not knowing whether to sit down or stand like everyone else.
"How is your son?" Vojsava
inquired.
"Daughter, you mean. We have a daughter.
Don’t you remember?"
"Oh, of course."
"She’s fine, she is doing wonderfully."
"So what’s new?" Martin
finally said.
"Pauline and I were just out for
a beer as usual," the guest began explaining in a particularly
enthusiastic manner. "And, well, we were in the neighbourhood
and thought, why don’t we drop in on Martin and Vojsava
for a change? We’ve been meaning to come over for so long."
"Splendid idea!" exclaimed
the hostess. Her eyes met Martin’s. Her cheeks flushed ever
so slightly.
"Pauline, you should put your sweater
back on," said Farouk, getting up to fetch his wife’s
sweater from the hall. "She has just gotten over a cold
and isn’t taking care of herself."
"It’s a beautiful day, isn’t
it?" said his wife. "Such a shame to be indoors on
a day like this."
"We always go out whenever we can,"
added Farouk loudly without hesitation.
"Farouk is a good soul," his
wife interrupted. "He never says ‘no’ when I want
to go out."
"That’s true, all right. Whenever
Pauline says ‘Let’s go for a walk’, I’m ready."
Martin and Vojsava exchanged furtive
glances and quickly looked away again as if caught in some shameful
act.
"How is your sister, Pauline?"
Vojsava inquired. "Martin told me she was operated on last
month."
An expression of sorrow passed over the
eyes of their guests.
"She’s better now, thank you.
What she went through! And we all suffered with her. But it’s
over now, thank goodness. Man is a strange animal. No one would
ever have thought that she would fall ill."
"Well, what can you do? We are mortal,
after all," added Vojsava, getting up to make coffee.
"And how about you?" Farouk
inquired.
"I was just washing up. Martin was
reading..."
Martin looked up and glanced at his wife.
There seemed to be a hint of irony in the way she pronounced
the word ‘reading’. He wanted to say something, but
the moment he opened his mouth, he realized that there was nothing
to add.
He saw what she was thinking by the way
she stood there. Martin wondered what exactly had happened, for
he...
Ten days earlier he had run into Farouk
on the street and they had gone to a bar for a drink. Farouk
had complained about his wife. "They’re all the same,"
he muttered angrily, "but what can you do?"
"That’s the way I am. Pauline
just has to say the word. It doesn’t matter whether I have
a doctoral dissertation to finish or anything. I drop whatever
I am doing just to keep her happy."
He had also told him more intimate details
that day.
Martin turned to his wife to try to see
what she was thinking, but she just stood there quietly. He was
aware that behind the calm facade there was some irritation which
he felt truly sorry about. He was on the point of saying something,
not to their guests but to Vojsava, to make her understand how
deceptive appearances were and that the essence of things was
quite different. He was about to blurt out, "Listen, it’s
not the way you think!" but Farouk broke in before he could
say a word, speaking with great enthusiasm.
"For some men, women are simply
part of the household. There are even men who cannot be bothered
discussing their professional problems and concerns with their
wives..."
Martin winced. Damn, he thought, crushing
the butt of his unfinished cigarette in the saucer of a flower
pot.
On the balcony, the light in the sky
was beginning to give way to the shades of evening. The leaves
of the poplar trees quivered in the light breeze which had sprung
up. The long June afternoon which had been so pleasant before
was drawing to a close.
"A man has to talk to his wife.
A wife is a life-long companion. Without a wife..."
"I don’t know what to talk
to her about. We have nothing more to say to one another. She
talks and I say ‘yes, yes’, but my thoughts are elsewhere,"
he had said in the bar.
Vojsava finally brought in the coffee.
Martin raised his head and observed how his wife held the tray.
He suddenly felt overwhelmed by a need to be with her. All this
time he had been longing to be with her, in vain, and as if that
were not enough, now there was this silly misunderstanding between
them. If they were alone now, he would kiss her.
Her hands in front of him proffered a
cup of coffee which he accepted stiffly.
The emotion which he had hoped to be
able to show her was swept aside by Farouk’s undampened
enthusiasm. Martin, quite speechless now, wanted to shout at
him: "Thief!"
Vojsava was not unaware of the enthusiasm
of their guests but stood before them as if she had noticed nothing
special. Martin thought he could read a hidden irony in her expression,
which seemed to ask, "What would it cost you?"
The guests stayed for a while and then
rose to leave. Once again, the hallway was filled with their
laughter and noise, which echoed all the way down the staircase
until they had reached the bottom.
For a moment, Martin and Vojsava stood
in silence at the doorway. Closing the door behind them, they
remained in the hall without saying a word. Their power of speech
seemed to have been used up. A new language would be needed for
them to understand one another. Each passing moment made it more
difficult to begin speaking again.
The June afternoon finally came to an
end. The neon streetlights had gone on outside. Children were
still playing noisily as their mothers called them home.
Martin walked down the hall and turned
on the light in the living room. The door to the balcony was
ajar and he pushed it wide open. He wanted to say something,
but the shadow of the guests lingered in the room and impeded
his thoughts. Vojsava approached silently.
Suddenly, Martin felt revolted. He wanted
to explain to her that human relations were only genuine when
they were natural and that words and gestures only had a meaning
if they were sincere. Ten days ago... Martin was now filled with
an irresistible desire to tell Vojsava everything he knew, not
so much to ease her unnecessary suffering or satisfy her curiosity,
but simply to confide in her as everyone does with those close
to them, just as he had always confided in her. But he changed
his mind, not because he was afraid she would misunderstand (she
understood everything without ever losing her sense of proportion),
but because speaking about it might hurt his wife and destroy
that beautiful June afternoon. How would it clarify his relationship
with Vojsava? Their relationship had always been based more on
real love and understanding than on showy gestures. He looked
up and smiled at his wife. Seated across from him, and exhausted
by the impromptu visit, she smiled back unexpectedly. Then suddenly
she rose, gathered up the coffee cups and left the room.
Obviously my place is here at the sink,
she thought, and although she realized that she was being unfair,
a blind fury made the estrangement all the worse. She set the
cups beside the sink and turned the tap on full. The jet of water
only heightened her frustration.
Martin heard the water, got up and walked
resolutely towards the kitchen, but was interrupted at that moment
by an irregular knocking at the door which he recognized immediately.
It was the children. Sweaty and dusty,
the two boys were still kicking a football back and forth. They
had been out too long and had prepared themselves for a scolding.
But surprisingly enough none was forthcoming. Their father’s
calm demeanour gave them courage. The elder son gave his father
a man-to-man wink and said, "Mommy forgot to call us."
"Off to the bathroom with you. And
wash quickly so that she doesn’t catch you like that,"
he said with the sort of amazement and satisfaction experienced
by men when they discover one day that their children have grown
into adolescents. The boys were in a boisterous mood as their
father entered the kitchen with a smile on his face. He could
see the back of his wife’s neck bent over the sink once
again. A lock of her hair usually held in place by a hair clip
had fallen to one side. He approached slowly and with a tender
gesture put it back in place.
"Leave the dishes. Let’s go
out and get a bit of air," he said, "I’ve got
so much to tell you and I haven’t had a minute alone with
you yet."
She shrank back at the touch of his hands.
For a moment, for a single second, he was on the point of being
offended by this gesture and his hand froze in the air. She realized
how absurd her reaction was. She had waited so long and with
such intensity, and now that the moment had finally arrived,
she did the very opposite of what she wanted, the very thing
she would have considered unacceptable in him. How could it have
happened?
Martin withdrew slightly and observed
her pensively. She raised her head and gave him a look. The spark
of warmth in his eyes had set off a mixture of longing, tenderness
and understanding in her. Even though these things had never
been lacking in their lives, against their will and for unknown
reasons, there were also many superfluous moments of tension
between them accompanied by worry and suffering which they would
later laugh about. Her expression had now grown tender and the
teardrops welling in her eyes seemed to have been waiting for
this very moment to wash away all trace of antagonism or stubbornness.
"I’ll get ready," she
said and went to get dressed. Her voice resounded joyfully down
the corridor as she told the boys to get out of the bathroom
and do their homework.
"Is it necessary to give proof of
one’s love in order to be understood by one’s wife?"
Martin wondered.
"I’ve sworn a hundred times
not to get upset because he simply does not pay attention to
details, and still I keep making the same mistake. Why does my
stupidity get in the way of my happiness?" she thought as
she combed her hair in the mirror. The cold click of her hair
clip seemed to banish all remnants of anger in her.
Although both of them felt relieved,
as if liberated from some force of evil, they were well aware
that there would always be moments when the harmony in their
lives would be thrown into discord by some thoughtless gesture
or remark. But at the same time they knew that the wellspring
of affection they felt for one another would keep their love
alive forever.
[Keqkuptimi, translated from
the Albanian by Robert Elsie] |
Albanian Literature in Translation
Modern
Authors from Albania (late 20th - 21st centuries)
