A Story

The teacher came out of the school clutching her small bag. In it she kept her most essential things. She cast her gaze down the street, but there was nothing, only the wind whistling and knocking the remaining leaves from the branches. This late autumn had come to her with an inner unease. An invisible winter was shaking the spring of her soul, tearing down the dreams she had woven for her profession and her love for teaching, the school, and herself. That shadow that appeared every day beneath the classroom window whenever she started her lesson made her lose her concentration. The children’s gazes at her were questions waiting for answers. “Who was this man, what did he want from her? Why did he stand beneath the school window, why didn’t he speak?” The questions tormented her to the point of exhaustion. She looked again; the joyful faces of the children no longer made an impression on her, nor did a white piece of paper that the wind snatched up and carried high. She now resembled a written envelope that had neither an address nor a home to rest in; it resembled her soul and her feet walking without an address. Her eyes had taken command of her senses. Sometimes they focused and sometimes they spun like radars in search of an enemy military target. But she herself did not know what she was looking for or why. She wanted to stop the shadow of the stranger moving beneath the school window, to ask him, but as soon as she opened the window, it vanished and dissolved into the cold autumn air. It vanished like a dream that, after keeping you awake, leaves you with many tormenting questions even when you wake up. She buttoned up her trench coat, clutched her chest and her heart that was beating fiercely, as if trying to leap out, and it seemed as though her soul was speaking to her: “Stay there, don’t go outside, it’s cold, I will look for him and find him.” Without realizing it, she had walked on, accompanied by her thoughts and the aroma of fermented grapes coming from the winery at the edge of the village. She came to her senses. It seemed to her that at the end of the bend she saw his trench coat. That was all she saw walking away whenever she opened the window. She had never seen his face, nor heard his voice. That was why she was anxious; it felt as if she were following and trying to meet a shadow that had no color, no voice, and no thoughts. She wanted to stop him and ask, “What do you want from me, what do your trench coat and your silence hide?” She wanted to unbutton the covers of his book as soon as possible and read his intentions. Those intentions had been shaking her for days and leaving her sleepless for nights. She approached the trench coat and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Good afternoon!” he greeted her, turning around.

“Good afternoon,” the teacher replied. The words caught in her throat; they could not make it past the depths of her chest. The mechanism that conveyed them from the depths to the atmosphere had broken down. She made one last effort so the bird of her voice would leave its nest and fly into space. “Who are you, who are you looking for?” She felt relieved after asking that question.

“You, I am looking for you!” His voice was calm. It sounded like major notes drawn from an old Arvanite song. His lips remained static, while his eyes took on a joyful look, akin to the outburst of spring in the village valley by the stream.

“Me!?” The teacher’s lips expressed a state of astonishment bordering on delirium. “Who are you, why do you want me?”

“I want something, but not here!”

The teacher shivered. She did not want to believe this was really happening. She wrapped the flaps of her trench coat around herself, as if she wanted to hide her body from the universe; in fact, there was no one on the street, yet it seemed to her as if even the poplars along the road, stripped of their leafy clothes, were watching her like frozen statues.

“Why do you want me, and why not here?” That word “here” felt to her like the end of the world. “Where else?” she asked, just to say something.

“By Vangjush’s poplars,” he whispered with a smile.

The teacher did not understand. The words seemed absurd to her, yet in his eyes and lips she saw no threat. Vangjush’s poplars were at the edge of the village, near the dry stream, by the planted field. They had gotten this name from Vangjush Miho’s painting.

“I will come!” she said, without even realizing it herself. She desperately wanted to stop the flow of this event that was disturbing both the children in class and herself.

“Don’t lie to me? I’ll wait for you!?”

She nodded.

He walked away with a slow and rhythmic step, as if treading on the keys of a giant piano, while the symphony of the wind accompanied him, swaying the flaps of his trench coat that fell almost to his shoes.

The teacher watched him, and he looked like a question mark moving away in the opposite direction of her intentions. She wanted to lunge at him, to shatter the rhythm of his movements and the greenness of the eyes of this enigma that had ruined her peace and the greenness of her quiet family life. She ordered her feelings not to rebel and changed direction so as not to see him.

And indeed, the next day he did not appear. The teacher was calmer. She often glanced out the window, but her gaze wandered to a small puddle of water created by the rain; it looked like a small eye, like a mirror reflecting the trees along the road. A small screen where the passing clouds saw their uncombed hair as they hurried along on their long journey to somewhere. That was how her soul was in these moments, burdened with clouds of questions. And she wanted to stop somewhere and pour out the rainfall of her thoughts and feelings. The bell brought her back to her senses. The children were leaving, taking the harmony of their voices with them and slowly emptying the nest of her chest.

Until a little while ago she had eagerly awaited the bell, but now its ringing frightened her, making her feel more powerless. The weight of her body felt as though it had lightened and the wind would carry her away,

the wind of her thoughts, racing toward a hopeless abyss. “Come what may,” she thought. She put on her boots and set off.

The biting cold brought her to her senses. She wrapped herself in a scarf so no one would see her. She took the shortest route and came out at the corner of the field. The road was dry, the color of wheat, ashen. The breath of the wind had cast a sugary dust over it.

Two parallel lines followed its length. They looked like two train tracks. They bore the weight of the autumn harvest. The two lines belonged to the carts that had brought the produce. And she was already burdened, walking as if unconsciously. Many questions echoed in her ears, while in her soul there was a squeezing of a heavy and bitter weight. It seemed to her that the poplars along the road were asking her where she was going; the great book of life and the fields had nothing to do with her studies. She lifted her head. A caravan of clouds traveled with the help of the wind and tangled in the trees by the stream; after combing itself through them and beautifying itself, it grew lighter and climbed higher, turning golden under the colors of the sun's rays falling perpendicularly. The teacher wanted to call out to them, to call out for them to take her too on the long road of her thoughts' exile. A chorus of frogs began its song, while a small bird emerged from a clump of weeds like a message and flew away, leaving behind only the beating of its wings and the notes of its voice like sad music. The environment woke her up somewhat. It made her take a deep breath. The chirping of this bird now entered her chest, and

the great breathing of autumn, accompanied by the joyful bleating of a flock that

was grazing near the stream. Scattered across the field, it looked like a complete painting. Further on, the poplars looked like a group of shepherds talking on their feet. She stopped. This walk gave her strength and hope. She took her next steps more confidently. She stopped. Opposite her was a small,

low house, and next to it a tall cypress like a quill, or a paintbrush, waiting to write or paint... She cast her gaze around. She thought she saw him coming out from the corner of the house. It was him. She watched him approaching like an enigma waiting to be solved.

“Welcome!” He saw her looking so unfocused and gave her courage. “Don’t be afraid!”

“I have no reason to be afraid,” she replied. In truth, inside her, the bird of fear did not have the courage to break its shell and come out. “Why did you ask for me?”

“I need some money,” he replied simply. On his face appeared not a single cloud of

thought that you could look at and understand the intention behind his words.

“And you brought me all the way here?”

“If you gave it to me at the school, I would be called a beggar or a thief. In truth, I will return it to you.”

The teacher could not believe her ears. She took what she had out of her bag and left it in his hand. His hand was large and white with some fine lines, as if carefully threaded by hands that make the beautiful embroidery hoops of Dibër. She looked deep into his eyes. A deep, deep blue, the beautiful pupils embroidered like two boats sailing calmly, surrounded by the green forests of his eyebrows. His lips reddened by the autumn chill, like a carefully cut red apple.

“Take it, and please don’t bother me anymore! You distract the children and you sadden me.”

“I won’t bother you. I give you my word.” His mouth had the taste of honey, while his voice had the rustle of a bee’s wings.

She turned her back to him and walked away with quick steps. She felt relieved; she couldn't feel her steps. She only felt and saw the painting of his portrait in the exhibition of her mind and the concert of his clear, resonant voice.

Everything seemed to return to normal. Almost a month was passing and he was nowhere to be seen.

The teacher was now tormented by another question. When she finished teaching, she chose the longest route to go home. She wanted to see him, just to see him. Where was he, where was he hiding? Could something have happened to him? Strange, the house of the human soul cannot live without emotions; it wants spring and summer inside it, but also the cold of winter's frost.

That day she knew something was going to happen. During the night, a cricket of joy sang near her window. She slept peacefully and got up earlier in the morning. When she met him on the street, she felt a joy, unable to understand from where nature was sending her this gift.

“Good afternoon!” she told him. “Where did you disappear to? We said you wouldn't bother me, but not like this.”

He smiled. The rosy hue of his lips heralded winter, for a piece of spring.

“Take this, and thank you.” He held out the money to her.

“Keep it! When I need it, I’ll ask you for it.” She wanted to say something else but swallowed it.

“No, thank you, if I need it, I’ll ask you.” He left it in her hand and looked her in the eye. He held her hand for a moment and let it go with a softness and a caress.

“When you need it, meet me again,” she whispered.

He smiled and walked away.

It seemed to the teacher that she held in her hand, along with the money, his beauty and his resonant voice. That night she slept peacefully, a dreamless sleep. The days flowed in the riverbed of the everyday. The young man was nowhere to be seen. The teacher was tormented by his absence. Not even

she herself understood what pushed her to know more about him. His portrait, his voice, became essential to her. Wherever she went, she searched for him with her eyes, but there was only the imagination of him and nothing more.

She left the village on her right and took the road again to the place where she had given him the money the first time. This time she was just as sad as the last time. Her soul was searching for something it missed. Something that even she herself did not understand. That something which had ruined her peace. It happened like in fairy tales, but in truth it was not a fairy tale. She cast her eyes everywhere and took slow steps. When she reached the house, she saw that the rain dew that had fallen at noon had washed both the roads and the fields. Only her desires it had not been able to wash, to make them more beautiful and more precise. The tall cypress, like a raised spear, gazed at the great endless belly of the sky and swayed like a ballet dancer in the final act.

He watched her from the window as she came, like a beautiful wedding invitation. She had wrapped her beauty in a large scarf to protect it from the winter winds.

“You came?” he asked.

“As you can see!” She smiled a little. Her face took on the appearance of a fragile flower. “You disappeared completely! I thought something might have happened to you.”

“Were you worried!?” He took her hands in his large palms. They were

fragile and trembled slightly. A rhythmic, harmonious trembling like a rustle of notes from the seasons of the great Vivaldi. He kissed them.

“Don’t!” she whispered to him, with such a sweetness that showed neither harshness nor reproach. “Don’t, they will see us.”

“And even if they see us, they don’t know how to speak.” He turned toward the cypress and the small house, without letting go of her hand. He took off her heavy scarf and revealed in this winter the spring of her blossoming. Her eyelashes trembled and her lips went dry. Her eyes grew wet with a sprinkling of tears of joy. He descended upon them, upon the dryness of her lips. He kissed her without saying a word. He took off her trench coat. He did not even know himself what he sought to discover in the soul of this arrived invitation that he had been waiting for so long. He swept her up in his arms. It seemed to him that he held his own soul along with her, dancing on this great stage of nature.

The teacher let herself go. His kisses on her chest and neck, his hands gripping her igniting thighs, extinguished a blazing fire that had been burning for days in the hearth of her feelings; all her bones were weightless and light. In the atmosphere of her soul’s orbit, a wind of joy and happiness blew, which she had never felt before. This unknown shepherd, with the touches of his lips and hands on the meadows of her feelings, made a thick blossoming sprout everywhere and filled her inner world with intoxicating scents. She did not even understand herself how she had been frightened of this young man, who could bestow nothing else but happiness. They stayed like that for a long time.

“I have to go!” She spoke the words as if passing them through obstacles. She said them herself, yet she herself did not want to leave his arms.

“Just a little longer,” he kissed her where she had rested her head on his chest. He listened to her world, now sleeping peacefully after the rainfall. The rivers of blood running along their long roads, accompanied by the rhythm of her heart which had normalized, announced that the storm had passed and the greenery had fallen into quiet and peace.

She kissed his eyes manically, as if she wanted to take them with her, and stood up.

“Will you come again?”

She did not speak. She threw her nightgown over her body, and then the rest of her clothes, covering her beauties. She did not even know herself what she had done, only that she felt relieved and

with a bird of joy chirping in the blossoming forest of her feelings.

He walked her outside. It seemed to him that his dream was flying from the nest of his chest and migrating somewhere far away, and he did not know if it would ever return to its first nest.

“I will wait for you!” he whispered.

She kissed him and kissed him for the last time, as if she knew how to take all the nectar from the flower of his lips. The cypress seemed taller to her; she had not noticed the chirping of the birds in its chest before. The dust of the road seemed sugary to her, and the plots of the fields like sliced pastries. On both sides of the road, the canals were filled with water. She had not noticed them before. The song of the frogs announced that it would rain; the fields were waiting for the rainfall to be satiated. In her own fields, the rain had watered all the plant beings. Their leaves were now greening with their heads held high, swayed by the cold winter wind. In the great sea of the sky, a purple cloud from the few rays of the sun swam through the scarce spring. It had opened its sails and was traveling to the distant shores where they awaited it...

When she got home, she got into the shower and stayed a long time. She felt the need to be alone.

“The food has gotten cold,” her husband reminded her.

She came out wrapped in a bathrobe. She kissed her husband as always and approached the table. She felt full. After coffee, they sat for a while and then lay down. She rested her head on his chest and fell asleep.

Pilo Zyba