Sworn Virgin (22 page)

Even a relationship as weird as this one has its purpose, she tries to convince herself. The fact that she sought him out or that he wanted to listen wasn't such a prodigiously big thing after all. People continue to tell stories, thank God. And thank God some people continue to trust others and sometimes that trust is not betrayed. Hana steels herself: whatever Patrick has in mind for that evening, she is ready. Her newfound serenity will not be
lost.

Now is the time to tell Lila why she's been lying low for the past few weeks. When Lila hears her voice she's overjoyed.

‘I thought you had left town. I've missed you so much, I have a million things to tell you. I would have come over this evening anyway, I couldn't wait any longer.'

Hana tells her cousin she won't be home this evening so she had better tell her now. Lila talks as if a dam has opened. At the hospital where she has a cleaning job they said they could help her. They offered to fund part of her nursing course
–
only if she makes all her grades, of course.

‘I have to fill in a pile of paperwork,' she says breathlessly.

Hana congratulates her. ‘I told you you'd find a
way.'

‘The Human Resources manager says I have good potential,' Lila yells down the phone. ‘Are you sure we can't meet this evening? What do you have on that's so important?'

Hana confesses she's going out to dinner with a man. Lila is struck
dumb.

‘What? A
man?'

‘I'm not going out with a monkey, if that's what you mean,' Hana answers, laughing. The floodgates open again and Lila gives her the third degree. To save time and effort, Hana feeds her the name Patrick.

‘The guy with the business card? The journalist?'

‘That's the
one.'

‘When did you see
him?'

‘A few weeks
ago.'

‘A few
–
how many?'

‘A couple of months
ago.'

‘You are evil, Hana Doda, you are a real
…'

Hana hangs up on her before Lila goes into paroxysms.

Patrick hugs her tenderly and sensitively. He puts her hands together and holds them tight. He knows what he's doing; he wants to find the right way to handle
her.

He says he'd just like to see her every now and then. Without stress. He'd like to spend time with her, as much as she wants. It's simple. To be friends without worrying whether there's anything unbalanced in the relationship.

She stares at him as he speaks without saying a
word.

‘So?' he laughs. ‘You're not going to take weeks to answer, are you? I just want to clear up a few things. I'm not looking to have some kind of outlandish affair because that's not what you need.'

Hana has trouble mustering an appropriate response. She's panicking again, and she confesses as much. His response is perfectly sensible and that's why, in the days to come, she is sure she'll be wondering where the hitch is. She's not used to this. She doesn't believe in the perfect man. Not even in novels.

‘How many women in the world … ' She leaves the sentence incomplete. Then she goes on, almost bitterly: ‘There must be something wrong with you. You can't be perfect. Your perfection scares me
–
and it's irritating
too.'

Patrick laughs. And the drop in tension helps
her.

‘Hana,' he says. ‘I'm not desperate and I'm not trying to trick you into anything! Don't worry, I have plenty of defects. Perfect?
Me?'

She tells him she's scared. Before he arrived, and in the last few days, she was calm. Now she's feeling nervous, so it's better if she doesn't say anything else, or she'll just talk garbage. He looks at her incredulously, but still with a twinkle of
fun.

‘Tell me the truth,' she pleads. ‘You're regretting this now, right? I can see it. It's not a matter of regretting things, or being convinced about what we're doing. I just know this isn't going to work. Pretending to be something I'm not, deceiving each other. It's no good. It can't work.'

Patrick gets up slowly and looks away. She follows closely behind. At the door she feels a sudden desire to curl up right inside him, but she doesn't let him read her thoughts. She lets him kiss her forehead while she kisses him all over in her
mind.

‘I'm sorry, Patrick. I've messed up again.'

He's already out of the door, shaking his head without a glance back at her. He gestures goodbye and runs down the stairs. He has left his bunch of flowers in the apartment.

You're fucked, Hana tells herself. You'll never learn. You're totally in the shit, ruined for life. All he did was ask you to be his friend and you acted like he was proposing till death do us part. God, you're such an idiot. Worse than last time getting drunk and all that. What the hell do you want from
him?

The question is loaded, and she decides to give herself a break that evening, because she knows damn well what the answer is, and it fills her with embarrassment.

She dials Lila's number again. If she spends another minute thinking on her own she'll lose it, there and
then.

‘Lila, I like him too much.'

‘Where is
he?'

‘I sent him away. I messed
up.'

‘You're crazy! Weren't you two going out to dinner? Why did you do that?'

‘Because everything he says makes too much sense. Come over. I need you here.'

Two months later Hana gathers her courage and calls Patrick on his cell phone. It's the beginning of September and it's still
warm.

She needs to apologize to him, she tells herself, and be forgiven. She suggests going out to a quiet restaurant in Georgetown on the canal, if he wants and if he has
time.

After saying sorry to a passerby for bumping into him, Patrick says he accepts her apologies, but is still doubtful about the rest. ‘What do we have to say to one another?'

She waits for more. He doesn't provide
it.

It feels like a slap and it hurts. She swallows the
pain.

‘Patrick?'

‘Yes?'

‘Please.'

Silence.

‘This evening I happen to be free. I hope that is ok with you because tomorrow I'm going out of town and I'll be away for a good while.'

She thanks him and hopes her voice does not betray how relieved she is. She tells him she'll pick him up in her ridiculous car; that way there'll be nothing else to know about her. He'll have seen everything.

‘I wish!' he exclaims. ‘Ok, see you this evening.' Hana imagines his smile, sees it cracking his face with expectant amusement.

‘And I'm paying,' she
adds.

‘Have you finished laying down conditions?'

The restaurant Hana has imagined for months that she would choose is perfect. They decide to sit outside on the patio rather than inside with the air conditioning. Soothing Celtic music plays in the background.

They order scallops, which are served in a thick white sauce.

Hana launches right into her apologies.

‘I'm sorry for every time I've put you out with a question; I'm sorry about my reservations; I'm sorry about my doubts.'

O'Connor doesn't answer. He's tanned, she notices. He must have been out sailing.

Another couple sits at the table near them. Patrick looks at Hana tenderly.

‘All we do is explain, reflect, argue. How about we try lightening up a little? How about changing the subject for once?'

Hana explains she's the opposite of the kind of woman Patrick must
like.

‘And what kind of woman would that
be?'

‘Gorgeous, well-educated, chic, poised.'

He doesn't give an inch. Hana decides to start eating her food. She thanks the defenseless bivalve drowning in the béchamel. It's delicious.

Hana knows how to be silent. She knows how not to die. She knows how to love. She knows how to write. But she doesn't know how to make love. And she doesn't know how to hate. Now she knows all these things about herself. She also knows things can't go on as they are. She says all this to Patrick with unusual
calm.

‘There are some things,' she says, ‘you and I can't talk about and … ' she stops.

‘You're forgetting I learned your story by rote,' he says, reassuring her. ‘It's all written in your diaries.'

Patrick rests his chin on both hands.

‘So let's go make love,' he says, as naturally as ever. ‘Let's finish these damn scallops. You pay the bill, since you're so concerned about it. Nobody is stopping you. And we'll get out of here. Nobody is stopping us. Don't panic. I'm not asking you to marry me, to have kids, to commit yourself for eternity. Friends give each other a hand. So let's try making love, if you feel like it. Start with that and then see what happens with your life.'

Hana has gone red. She tries smiling at Patrick and succeeds, without feeling awkward.

‘Normally friends don't go to bed, right?' she quips, scared to mess up again.

‘Nothing is normal between us, so what's the problem?' he says, coming to her aid. ‘Let's go, Hana. We're not having this tug of war just out of friendship. There's more to it. Shall we try and find out what there is? You decide. Are we going to talk about it all night, or shall we go? It's been a while since I last made love too, if you really want to know.'

‘How come?'

Patrick doesn't answer. Before getting up he silently swills down the last of the wine in his glass.

‘The bathroom is at the end on the left if you need
it.'

Hana goes into the enormous room. She doesn't look around, she goes straight to the mirror. She sees herself reflected dressed in red, in a tight knitted skirt. She steps out without even rinsing her face, which is burning. Then she goes into the sitting room, where Patrick has lit a small table lamp and lots of candles.

He sits her down on the sofa and hugs her. Then he kisses her on her forehead.

Patrick's hands slowly stroke her nipples, then slide down towards her hips, where they come to rest. Hana takes a while before she lets herself go. He caresses and kisses her, while she tries to figure out whether she likes what he's doing. She's terrified of reciprocating his gestures, so she grabs hold of the sheet and feels safer.

‘You're not drowning,' he whispers.

He realizes Hana is still not feeling much, so he moves down and gently opens the lips of her vagina with his tongue. He plays with her, teasing her clitoris, doing all those things she's seen in the films but this time she's beginning to sense the pleasure, then she feels it take her over. Patrick readjusts his body until the two forms fit together perfectly, and waits until she's ready before slowly sliding into
her.

He carries on kissing her, warm and relaxed, happy even. Sitting up against the bedstead, he pulls her to him and she rests her head on his shoulder.

‘It's been a year since I last made love.'

‘And I'm free of this thing,' Hana says, amazed, smelling his skin and wondering what happens now. He hugs her closer.

‘So?' he jokes. ‘We're free of
this thing
together. Are you happy
now?'

‘How come you didn't make love for a year?'

He kisses her on the temple.

‘I'll tell you another time,
ok?'

Silence.

‘But I didn't reach orgasm
…'

‘It'll happen. Next time we'll work on
it.'

‘It's not work,' Hana says, furrowing her
brow.

‘No, it's not. You're right.'

‘Patrick?'

‘Yes?'

‘Did you like
it?'

‘I think so; I really think
so.'

‘Swear.'

‘God, you talk a lot!' Patrick laughs, still holding her close, while Hana begins to feel awkward. She tries to free herself.

‘Stay here,' he whispers. ‘There's no hurry. There's absolutely no hurry.'

And he falls asleep.

She only pulls away from his embrace when Patrick's breathing becomes regular. She dresses and leaves his apartment. She drives home, concentrating fiercely on the road, and smokes the cigarette she has been saving for this
after
.

The night is deserted and strangely slow. But she is not at all. She feels alert and, as soon as she gets home, she has another smoke. Now she knows she has a life to live, whatever happens from now on. Before day comes, she'll sleep. Before any fear creeps back. She doesn't think it will. She hates her
fear.

She has felt her body react; she felt it pulse.

‘Welcome back, body,' she says out
loud.

She throws her cigarette butt out of the window.

It's good to know she's alive.

I am grateful beyond words to each and every person involved in the delicate process of shaping this story in translation from another language.

First to Clarissa Botsford: the deepest gratitude for loving my story in its original Italian, for deciding to translate it wonderfully at her own time and risk, and for her relentless search for a publisher. Clarissa's determination not to give up until she found one was my and this novel's good fortune.

I also extend grateful thanks to two other translators without whom
Sworn Virgin
would not be complete: Ruth Christie, who translated Nâzim Hikmet's poems from the Turkish, and John Hodgson, who translated Ismail Kadare's foreword from the Albanian.

I cannot thank And Other Stories and Stefan Tobler enough for believing in my novel
–
and indeed for being crazy enough to believe in literature in translation in the first place.

And a special thank you to Sophie Lewis for her meticulous work: I could not have dreamed of a better editor.

Elvira
Dones