Happy birthday... Kosovo
ONE ROAD FOR TWO LOVES
A Story
“Vid, vid, vid,” Lumturia called her little dove, and he opened his wings like a parachute and landed on the palms of her hands. He began to coo and peck at the sunflower seeds with his beak. He would lift his head and look her right in the eye as if to ask, “Well, any news from the university, from your friends? You must have called me for something, it’s not time to eat yet!”
Lumturia stroked his white suit of feathers, his grey breast, and his blue beak, turned him towards her and began to speak to him sweetly, just as she always did. The dove would leave the seeds, turn his blue eyes to the girl and stand at attention. Often, when he liked the conversation, he would do a pirouette with a coo, coo, coo, and stand still again. But this time, the girl’s caresses and eyes were full of joy, and in their depths there was a dewiness, like tree sap when the buds bloom. The dove puffed out his chest, pecked at the remaining seeds and waited for Lumturia to speak.
“No more seeds! Do you know why I called you?”
The dove shifted his feet on the palms of her hands, as if trying to write his thoughts on Lumturia’s hands, while she stared at him without looking away. He seemed to be saying, “I figured something happened, I can tell from your look that it’s something happy.” The dove had lived with her for six years. He knew exactly when she was sad and when she was happy. He read the two petals of her lips with ease, just as the great notebook of space can be clearly read by the wings of birds. Doves are like people, they fly like their thoughts, like their desires. Their chests are small, and so are their wings, but their flights are long.
“We’re leaving! Yes, yes, we’re going on holiday to Italy. Don’t look at me so confused; until now my desires have only flown on the wings of dreams and on yours, but now we will fly together. We’re going to meet him, yes, yes, we’re going to meet him. We’ll kiss him, we’ll kiss him with all the strength of our souls. I’ve kept this love locked in here for six whole years,” she said, and patted her chest with her right hand. “What do you say, will he be happy to see us? We’ll show up unexpectedly, like a holiday greeting card. We’ll knock on the door of his house with the clamp of your beak.”
The dove looked right into her eyes. He knew all her features: the long chestnut hair falling over her shoulders, her button nose, the sloes of her eyes, and the rustle of her voice through the thicket of her hair. He pecked her on the eyebrow with his beak.
“You’ll poke my eyes out!”
In fact, the dove had seen a strand of hair falling in front of her eyes. He pecked at it and moved it away; it must have looked like a cloud to him, a cloud that kept him from gazing into her eyes.
“What are you doing? How are we going to go to Italy with one eye, and besides, will they want us with one eye?”
The dove leapt as if dancing ballet. He opened his wings, did a spin, and stood like a swan with his beak tucked under his right wing.
“Don’t go! I have so much to say! We won’t sleep at all tonight. We’ll pack our things,
our gifts.”
A whole flock of doves poured into the girl’s hands. That was how she had trained them. When she fed her dove, she threw food to the others too. They were his friends. During the day while she was at the University, they kept her dove company. Her dove opened his wings, coo, coo, coo, flapped them and chased them away so they wouldn’t land on the balcony railing. He seemed to be telling them, “Go away, this isn’t the time, leave us alone, we want to talk.” But they refused; they wanted to share in their joy.
Lumturia filled a handful of kindness with sunflower seeds and scattered them. Instantly, the rustle of beating wings created a breeze and a sweet, harmonious musicality. The cooing expressed a whole world. A world that only Lumturia’s soul could understand and read. The fans of their wings had become part of her sky. She loved these flights like few others could.
Coo, coo, Bluebeak brought her back to her senses; that was what she had named her dove.
Lumturia returned to his world. She had lived with him for six years. She had two precious things when she crossed the Kakavijë border crossing: her passport to prove her identity, and
her dove, Bluebeak, her only love from her hometown, Kukës. In high school and university, all her friends knew Bluebeak. Lumturia knew his language, his flights, his cooing, right down to the secrets Lumturia kept in her heart. She was fourteen when they first met. They had never been apart since. Now she was twenty. Bluebeak was her brother, friend, and sister. She told the dove everything; on his white wings, like a notebook, she felt she was writing the diary of her life. Lumturia would talk to Bluebeak about her flights, about love, about dreams. He didn’t speak, but he cooed, and this cooing was an affirmation. She had chosen her dove; he didn’t spill her secrets, he was loyal. He didn’t even tell her words to the female doves he flew with over the rooftops of love.
***
When they anchored on the shores of Ancona, evening was falling on the Italian coast. The golden disk of the moon revolved in the orbit of the sun and the sea. Deep, deep in the sea, the moon seemed to be bathing, accompanied by the embers of the stars’ love rocking on the waves, like girls dreaming of weddings.
Ancona was a coastal city like Saranda, but with old houses of Roman construction. They became clearer and clearer, and finally the castle walls on the right hill of the city appeared. The loudspeakers announced the disembarkation. Passengers were taking photos, capturing the moments on camera to keep with them in their exhibition of memories.
“Go down on foot while I get the car,” her father said. “Stop at the customs checkpoint for the stamps.”
Lumturia looked curiously at the ship’s great belly. It held so much love inside, it brought and took away so many memories. Dozens of cars and hundreds of people. A whole parade of impressions
scattered into its large, welcoming port. They approached the customs officer and waited for her father.
“Open your luggage!” The customs officer was a middle-aged man with slightly white hair around his ears. He had a sweet, deep voice like a cello playing a D flat major note.
Her father opened the doors and the trunk.
“Oh, no, signore! What is this dove? Avian flu won’t let us let it through, you need a medical document.”
Her father and mother were astonished. They hadn’t seen that Lumturia had brought the dove with her in a small cage. They looked at each other.
“What do we do now, daughter? Why did you bring it with you?”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“We could have at least gotten a permit for it.”
Lumturia took a step forward. She opened her bag and took out a paper. It even had a photo on it.
“What is this?” her father asked.
“The doctor’s note,” the girl explained.
“You took precautions and didn’t tell us, always so precise, my daughter,” her mother smiled and looked at her husband.
“Bravo, bravo, signorina!” The customs officer liked the surprise. He stamped the papers and motioned
for them to clear the line.
“Even when we marry you off, we’ll include Bluebeak in your dowry,” her mother teased.
“No! The boy who gets Bluebeak too will have to pay,” her father laughed. “He’s worth more than a dowry.”
Lumturia wasn’t paying attention. She was thinking about the meeting she had dreamed of.
“Dad! Where are we sleeping tonight, in Rimini?” She had explained to her parents that she was coming to Italy for this city. In it lived a six-year-old love.
“No, tonight we’re sleeping at my first love’s place!”
Mother and daughter were left open-mouthed!
“Dad!” the girl scolded him.
Her mother looked back and forth between her husband and her daughter.
“Yes, the time has come for you to know too.”
“You never told Mom?”
“No, my Lumturia, I never told her. Perhaps she wouldn’t have wanted to share my love. Your mother has been a bit jealous all her life, so I kept it hidden.”
“Hidden!?”
“Yes, my daughter. I was fourteen at the time.”
“And her?” the girl asked, without understanding why.
“She doesn’t know! They said she’s centuries old.”
Mother and daughter understood nothing. They looked at each other, their eyes and mouths wide with shock.
“Tonight I’m invited to sleep in her lap.”
“How many years have passed since then, Dad?”
“Well, today I’m fifty-three, and if we subtract fourteen, how many are left?”
“Thirty-nine, Dad! You’ve kept your love for her for thirty-nine years?”
“Yes, my daughter, yes! And the strangest thing is that I’ve never met her and I’ve never seen her.”
“Then how did you fall in love with her, Dad?”
His wife sat there like a carved prehistoric bust. Her face had taken on a pale, marble-like yellow hue, her stare had intensified, and her lips were sealed tight.
“Well, it happens! A person can keep a love hidden for thirty-nine years,”
even for a whole lifetime. Then comes a moment when they burst out and say everything.”
“What about your family?”
“My family has its own love.”
“Dad, please! We didn’t come to Italy!...” The girl was clearly upset.
“I have a burning desire to kiss her eyes, her neck, to caress her chest. To do everything I’ve dreamed of since my early youth. Even the earth probably wouldn’t let me rest in peace without experiencing these emotions.”
The first clouds of worry appeared in his wife’s eyes. They looked like a cyclone, growing heavier and heavier with rain; a storm was expected to break at any moment.
“So, quite frankly, is this why you brought us to Italy?” her mother said in a half-whisper.
“Yes,” he said. “For this, and for my only daughter to meet her love.”
“The girl is at that age, what’s your excuse?”
“I’m at that age too, woman! Love has no age! It sweeps you away, it rejuvenates you, it lifts you into a world of seven hemispheres.”
Mother and daughter had never seen him speak this way.
“What’s her name, Dad?”
“San Marino! San Marino! I can’t get those postage stamps with her pictures out of my head—square, rectangular, triangular! Beautiful, wonderful! With the castle and its three tall towers, the royal palace, the university. Those narrow streets, those trees that I carry in my soul, today the day has come to see them, to stroll through her streets, to gather a bunch of vivid memories that I feel will add years to my life. I used to trade ten other stamps for one San Marino, but today I won’t trade anymore. The time has come to make the dream of so many years a reality.”
“Dad! San Marino is your sweetheart?”
“Yes, my daughter! Why hide it!”
His wife leaned forward from the back seat and kissed him on the cheek. Those moments had been a spiritual torture she had never imagined.
Lumturia bounced like a little girl and did somersaults in the front seat. She had never imagined her father loving anyone other than her mother.
Meanwhile, the forty-five kilometers had flown by without them even noticing.
“First we’ll get a hotel,” her father said. “Then we’ll make our own schedule.”
***
The next day they got up early. They climbed the clock tower. Dawn had just begun to break.
The fiery ball of the sun was rising from the sea. It was smiling, dressed in red clothes.
San Marino is a city-state. Built on a hill, with a picturesque castle. This state of thirty-six thousand residents gets 3.5 million tourists a year. Far in the distance, stretching along the Adriatic, lies the ancient and modern city of Rimini.
Lumturia put her eye to the large telescope and pointed it at the city, as if trying to shorten the travel time
to get there.
“Do you see him, your friend, your sweetheart, coming on foot?” her father teased.
“They have no idea we’re here.”
“Then how will we find them?” her mother asked.
“We have the address. By car, right to the door.”
“Albania is that way,” her father changed the subject. “When the Arbëresh had children, they would turn their faces toward the east, just like today. That is where their origins lie. With every new birth, they remind their descendants of their roots.” The sun appeared in full. Lumturia and her mother watched its sunrise with curiosity. The more they looked at it, the more the sun grew, like a little child standing up and drawing the curiosity of the adults.
They quickly found themselves at the door of the house they were looking for. The streets were wide, spacious,
surrounded by beautifully pruned flower beds. A rare cleanliness caught the eye everywhere. The sea released a breeze and a scent with the taste of brine. Lumturia rang the intercom.
“Hello!” The answer was immediate. “Lumturie, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me!”
“I’m so glad you called. How are things in Greece, how are your parents?”
“We aren’t in Greece!”
“Then where?”
“At your front door, look, I’m ringing the bell right now.” Lumturia pressed its button.
The door took a while to open. A moment later, the hurried footsteps of the host were heard on the stairs. The two double doors opened, like two large welcoming arms. In the doorway appeared a tall girl with hair falling over her shoulders, her blue eyes like two large lilies. She was dressed in a white wedding gown.
“Kosovë!”
“Lumturi!”
The girls were kissing each other.
Lumturia’s parents stood there frozen stiff. They had come with the thought of one love. Now, shocked, they looked first at one and then at the other. Kosova hugged both parents, then, holding each other in an embrace, they climbed the stairs of the house. Lumturia’s parents followed behind, burdened with the weight of the unexpected and the unknown.
How can those moments be expressed in words? Kosova’s parents were there, as if waiting for what happened to happen.
“Excuse me, but why did you come out in a wedding gown?” Lumturia’s mother asked.
“Because today we are having a wedding.”
“You’re getting married? Oh, what a lovely coincidence,” her father said, unable to contain his joy.
“Not me!”
“Then who?”
“Kosova! It’s her second wedding anniversary. Today we are welcoming all our friends in white gowns.” The host father stood up.
“May she have a long and happy marriage!”
The two men hugged as if they were brothers.
“How did you two meet?” Kosova’s mother asked.
Lumturia began to recount the long journey of how she met her sister:
“We were in Albania back then. We lived in Kukës. The smell of war could be felt everywhere. The smell of gunpowder, fire, and napalm. At night I would sit by the window and watch the flash of the shells falling across the border.”
“My father was working and living in Greece.”
Everyone hung on her every word. The girl spoke with emotion, as if the events
were happening at that very moment.
“One morning, amidst the flames and smoke, I saw a dove on the balcony sill.”
Streams of tears began to flow down Kosova’s cheeks.
“What! And you never told me? Oh, sister! We left without a single piece of clothing on our backs. The Serbian she-wolf was mercilessly biting the suffering body of martyred Kosova wherever she could.”
“I took it in my hands; it was trembling all over. The shine in its eyes was gone, its heart was beating wildly. It was afraid, but it also longed for a warm hand. I picked it up; it was light, nothing but feathers left. On its left leg, a ribbon was tied, and on a piece of paper these words were written,” Lumturia opened the letter and read: “‘You who save the life of my dove are my life, my sister, my brother,’ and below that some initials I didn’t understand back then, but later I learned it was an email. Kosova’s email.” She placed the letter in Kosova’s hand. “A year later, we moved to Greece with my family.”
“The dove!?” Kosova burst into sobs.
They were adults, but children at the same time. This was easily seen on their emotion-laden faces.
“I took it with me. Later I wrote to you on email and we connected.”
“But you never wrote to me about the dove!”
“I kept it a secret!”
“And then?” Kosova’s parents asked.
“We finished high school together in Greece. Now we are attending university.”
“How is it? Do you have a photograph?”
“No, I don’t.”
“What a shame!”
“I don’t have a photograph, but I have the original.”
“Really?”
The house had turned into a science fiction book.
“Where is it?”
“In the car!”
The girls went down to the car. They had linked hands and were flying down the stairs.
“We just found out too,” Lumturia’s father said. “She never told us the secret of her love.”
“May Lumturia live a long and happy life,” the hosts wished them.
“May Kosova live long, and may her wedding day be remembered for centuries.”
The girls were climbing the stairs with the dove in their hands. From everyone’s chests, the doves of blessing flew in a flock, free across the blue sky in Rimini.
PILO ZYBA
