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)
“It is expensive!” Alessia exclaims when she sees the cost.
“Yes, I suppose it is.” And I realize I’ve never paid attention to how much fuel costs. I’ve never had to. “Come on, let’s go pay.”
In the queue for the register, Alessia stands beside me, taking the occasional bite of her sandwich and gazing at the shelves in what looks like wonder.
“Do you want anything? Magazine? A snack? Something sweet?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “There is so much to buy here.”
I look around. Everything seems so commonplace to me. “Don’t you have shops in Albania?” I tease.
She purses her lips. “Of course. In Kukës there are many shops, but not like this.”
“Oh?”
“This is tidy and ordered. Very neat. Pathological.”
I grin. “Pathologically tidy?”
“Yes. The opposite of you.”
I laugh. “The shops aren’t tidy in Albania?”
“Not in Kukës. Not like this.”
At the register I slide my credit card into the chip and PIN machine, conscious that she’s watching my every move.
“Your card is magic,” Alessia says.
“Magic?” And I have to agree with her. It is magic. I’ve done nothing to earn the money that’s paying for the petrol. My wealth is merely an accident of birth.
“Yes,” I murmur. “Magic.”
Back at the car, we climb in, and I wait before pressing the ignition.
“What?” Alessia asks.
“Seat belt.”
“I forget. It’s like the nodding and the shaking.”
What is this?
“In Albania we shake our head to say yes, and we nod to say no,” she explains.
“Wow. That must be confusing.”
“Your way is confusing. Magda and Michal had to teach me.”
Clutching the other half of my panini, I start the car and cruise down the slip road back onto the M5.
So she mixes up yes and no? I wonder if I should review any of our previous conversations, given this new information.
“Where are we going?” Alessia asks, staring ahead into the dark night.
“My family has a place in Cornwall. It’s another three hours or so.”
“It is a long way.”
“From London? Yes.”
She takes a sip of her hot chocolate.
“Tell me about your home,” I say.
“Kukës? It’s a small town. Nothing much happens….It’s…um…what is the word? Alone?”
“Isolated?”
“Yes. Isolated. And…rural.” She shrugs and seems reluctant to say more.
“Cornwall is rural. You’ll see. Earlier you were telling me about your grandmother.”
She smiles. She seems happier to talk about her grandmother. This is what I’d envisaged when I hatched our escape plan this afternoon, an easy and relaxed conversation where I find out more about her. I settle back in my seat and give her an expectant look.
“My grandmother and her friend Joan came to Albania as missionaries.”
“Missionaries? In Europe?”
“Yes. The Communists banned religion. Albania was the first atheist nation.”
“Oh. I had no idea.”
“She came to help the Catholics. She smuggled books into Albania from Kosovo. Bibles. You know. What she did, it was dangerous. She met an Albanian man and—” She pauses, and her face softens. “They fell in love. And…how do you say it? The rest is history.”
“Dangerous?” I asked.
“Yes. She has many hair-stand-up stories.”
“Hair-stand-up?” I smile. “I think you mean hair-raising.”
She grins. “Hair-raising.”
“And Magda’s mother?”
“She moved on to Poland as a missionary and married a Polish man,” she says, as if this is obvious. “They were the best of friends. And their daughters became the best of friends.”
“And that’s why you came to Magda’s when you escaped.”
“Yes. She has been a good friend to me.”
“I’m glad you’ve had someone.”
And now you have me.
“Do you want the other half of your panini?”
“No thank you.”
“Will you share it with me?”
Alessia eyes me for a moment. “Okay,” she says, and fishing it out of the bag, she offers it to me.
“You take first bite.”
She smiles and does exactly that, then hands it to me.
“Thank you.” I flash her a quick grin. I’m relieved that she seems happier. “More music?”
She nods while chewing.
“Your choice. Just press that button and scroll through the tracks.”
Alessia squints at the screen and starts exploring my playlists. She’s diligently absorbed in the task. Illuminated by the screen, her face is serious and earnest. “I do not know any of this music,” she murmurs.
I hand her back the panini. “Choose one.”
Her finger taps the display, and I smile when I see what she’s chosen.
Bhangra. Why not?
A man starts singing a cappella. “What language is this?” Alessia asks, and takes another bite. A melted piece of mozzarella escapes out of the corner of her mouth. With her index finger, she pushes it back into her mouth and sucks her finger clean. My body comes to attention.
I grip the steering wheel. “Punjabi. I think.”
The band kicks in on the track, and Alessia passes the panini back to me. She sways in her seat to the rhythm. “I have not heard anything like this.”
“I sometimes use this as part of a set when I’m DJing. More?” I ask, offering her what’s left of the sandwich.