An american dream
(Një ëndërr amerikane)

1.

"I'm going to sell my car and move to America. There is nothing left for me here. There's no sense in it anymore ... My wife and daughter are living there and I am stuck with my parents back here. It doesn't make any sense. I've done enough for them. I know they are getting old, but they've also got my sister, not just me. Let her take care of them for a change. That's the only solution. After all, you only have one life. What do you think?"

These are the words I hear almost every morning from my neighbour, right after I leave my apartment building. He knows that I have my morning coffee at the cafe next door and is on the lookout for me every day. I am pretty sure that sooner or later I am going to have to change cafes. I haven't changed up to now because I believed what he said, that he would very soon sell his car, abandon his parents and finally join his wife and daughter in America.

But every morning, his old car, that Fiat Uno, remains parked out front. In the cafe sits Cufi with his moustache, and over my balcony hangs the washing of his devoted mother.

I enter the cafe for my morning coffee, never in my life having drunk it at home, and Cufi pulls back a chair for me to sit on. The place is usually full of people I know. Cufi normally gets there at least an hour beforehand and waits for me, all his brilliant conversation being ignored by the people at the surrounding tables. He gives me a hearty welcome, in particular since I'm usually the one who pays for his morning coffee.

"Yes, Cufi... you're right... sell your car... leave your parents at your sister's place and get away... Your wife and daughter are waiting for you." This, as you can imagine, is my daily spiel before I bid him farewell and set off for work.

2.

I didn't know Cufi's wife. I had never even seen her... until he showed me her photograph one fine morning during the couple of minutes we spent at the cafe. I was thunderstruck, but I collected myself immediately. I pretended to be indifferent and to be staring at the waiter who was coming over with the bill.

"How can I get this photo enlarged? Where do they do that?" Cufi asked me right off.

"No problem," I replied, "I can scan it at my office. What format do you want it in?"

Cufi replied simply, "Make it as big as you can," and handed me the photo. I took it, seemingly indifferent, and put it in the inside pocket of my jacket.

"What's your wife's name, Cufi?"

"Anna," he replied, enunciating the two "a"s differently from one another.

"Anna? Alright. I'll try to get it done as soon as possible," I replied as I turned to leave.

God, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on! As soon as I got away from the cafe, I took the photo carefully out of my jacket and stared at it, without paying attention to where I was going. She was stunning. It was a silhouette portrait. She had her blonde hair tied up, and her lush lips were pressed against one another ever so gently. She had high cheekbones and large, green eyes. Cufi's wife was the ideal woman. She was the being ever man longed for in moments of fantasy.

"I'm going to sell my car and move to America. There is nothing left for me here. It doesn't make any sense ... What do you think?" I recalled Cufi's words. Who is this guy who hangs on here and doesn't try to get back to her as quickly as possible?

When I got to the office later, holding her photo in my hand, it occurred to me to buy his car, finance a home for his parents and tell him: "Go ahead! What are you waiting for? After all, you only have one life. Get going!" It was with these thoughts that I began work...

3.

"You always luck out," said my boss as we stood at the top of the staircase. "I just get more and more bills and taxes to pay. You'll have to go to America in my place. Washington. Get the ticket yourself and go, tomorrow if you can. I have to be here to receive a high-level delegation. Damn it!" he continued, before entering his office.

Washington! I had just seen the word written on the back of the photo of Cufi's wife, Anna. Washington! And I was supposed to travel the very next day. I had no time left, not a minute. All I could do was put the photo back into my jacket and head home.

I didn't even have time to tell Cufi what had happened. I phoned my wife and began groping around in the upper shelves of the clothes closet for a suitcase. I also had to get my ticket and make the usual arrangements. My wife was not particularly fond of my sudden business trips, but she knew better than anyone else what a travelling husband needed.

4.

When I got to the little airport, I discovered that I still had Anna's photo with me. It was in the inside pocket of my jacket where I usually keep my plane ticket and passport. They were all travelling together, the photo in my passport, her photo and the ticket, which was the means of shortening the distance between us.

It was not the first time that I had crossed the Atlantic. I knew what a torture it was, realizing full well that I was not one of those fortunate individuals who could sleep all the way, not even one of those who could immerse himself in a book for the length of the journey. On the contrary, I sat there, drowsy and confused, and entered a reality of my own creation, one which alternately elated and depressed me, but from which I inevitably emerged with a backache.

My confusion during this flight had almost reached the surreal. It was assisted no doubt by the fine weather, not a cloud in the sky, and by the strangely transparent atmosphere. From the time we left the continent, I stared out of the window at the shimmer of light moving along the surface of the ocean. And to follow that shimmer from an altitude of ten thousand metres means that it was really moving quickly. Then I closed my eyes and... later... in a light slumber, I began to imagine that the shimmer of light on the ocean below me was Cufi's car. Cufi had set off for America in his Fiat and, at the speed he was travelling, was likely to arrive before me. Even though he was in a Fiat, he was dressed like a pirate from the Middle Ages. He had lost one eye in the vanguard of a battle. The empty socket was covered by a black leather patch which was tied around the back of his head by a strap. He had a sash at his waist and was suitably armed: a dagger, a steel hook for boarding vessels, the type of hook which had gouged out his missing eye, and a pair of pincers to cut the throat of any sea captain who got in his way. I was not sure whether or not Cufi still had both arms. He was, at any rate, haughtier than I had ever seen him and had obviously changed his mind at the last minute and decided not to sell his car.

Later on, there was a moment when he looked up and recognized me. We gave one another an unusually friendly smile and waved, both acutely aware of what we were up to...

5.

The important meeting which had brought me so urgently to America lasted only two days, but they were so crammed with activity that I hardly had time to come up for breath. I only had one free day and would have to fly back home on the next. As I had nothing particularly important to say at the meeting, I remember spending my time thinking about where I would go on the third day. I got back to the hotel, exhausted after a dinner offered by the organizers. It must have been after midnight, though it was early morning by European time. Although I was desperately tired, I couldn't get to sleep at all. Alone, with my clothes scattered from one end of the room to the other, I remembered the photo. It was there on the dressing table. I took it and had another look. On the back side, there was something written: a name, an address and a telephone number. Everything was at my disposal: a telephone, her number, I myself, she herself, the desire taking hold of me, and the photo. It was simply the time of day, or rather of night, which was out of line. "You have time on your hands tomorrow, don't you?" I asked myself. I did, but she might be at work and... and that would mean it would all be in vain. I did not even really understand my motive for needing to contact Cufi's wife.

"Hello? Anna...? I'm sorry to bother you. I realize it's late, but... I'm... I just got here from Tirana and am only staying for a short time, actually just till tomorrow. And I thought you might have something you wanted me to take back for Cufi, or ... if there's anything else I could do for you."

"How kind of you! Thanks very much. It would be a pleasure to meet you. It's been such a long time and I've been getting homesick... for Tirana and everything. Tomorrow? Tell me where you want us to meet and at what time..." I heard her gentle, longing voice at the other end of the line.

I told her it would be convenient for us to meet at nine o'clock at the entrance to the Philips Collection, which was near my hotel.

"How will I recognize you?" she inquired.

"Oh, don't worry. I have a photo of you. I will recognize you right away."

6.

I left the hotel at ten to nine, having spent almost the whole night wide awake, yet I felt a sense of release. I had nothing to take with me, no briefcase, nothing, and strolled down the road with my hands in my pockets. I was leaning against one of the columns at the entrance and would have felt like a local, had not a tall, thin man passed by and greeted me in Russian with a "zdrastvuye." I smiled and answered him in Albanian. It then occurred to me that I had chosen the worst possible moment for our meeting because everyone was on his way to work. Masses of people were entering the building. This caused me to take the photo of Cufi's wife out of my pocket once more and have another glance at it. I watched the flow of people shuffling along. She was not going to keep the appointment, and I had the impression of being in one of those romances where you wait and wait in vain.

It was twenty past nine and there were still lots of people passing by, but she was not among them. She had not shown up. I took another look at the photo to assure myself that none of the pedestrians resembled her. It was at nine-thirty that I caught sight of a small, thinnish woman in her forties. She looked weary as she approached and asked: "Hello, are you Albanian?" and then pronounced my name.

"I am Cufi's wife, Anna." she said.

Cufi's wife! Anna! She did not look like the woman in the photo at all. She was a completely different person.

I was dazed. I felt a numbness in my limbs and a dryness in my mouth. I don't know what impression I made on her, but I imagine I must have looked like someone who had just been jolted out of a deep sleep.

"How are you?" she asked, as she shook my hand.

"You didn't recognize me at all," she added. "I have been standing here for over half an hour," and smiled.

"It that right? Me, too."

She seemed to sense the confusion and numbness within me.

"I wanted to tell you last night, but I forgot. I wanted to tell you that you could not possibly recognize me from a photo. I have changed a lot..."

"No, you haven't," I muttered.

"Yes, I have. It's true... Young girls, girls are like the breeze..." she replied with a rueful look.

I was still bewildered as we strolled along the pavement. She was the only one to speak. I had forgotten everything I had wanted to say, both the compliments and Cufi's plans to sell his car and get back to his family.

In the end, she seemed to have had enough of me, lifeless idiot that I was, and did the best thing she could have done at that moment. She turned and shook my hand.

"All the best. Sorry I took up your time. It would be better not to say anything to Cufi... Have a good flight..."

7.

I returned home the next day, filled with a sense of anguish and incredulity about what had taken place. I even forgot to buy something for my wife and the children. Nothing. I was completely exhausted.

The plane arrived early in the morning and I was home by about seven. I greeted everyone, had a glass of milk as usual, and left the house to go to work.

Cufi was waiting for me at the cafe. He offered me a chair and I joined him.

"I haven't seen you around," he said.

"I've been late for work the last couple of days. I wasn't feeling too well... That's why. What about you?"

"I'm fine. Nothing special. But I've decided to sell my car and move to America. There is nothing left for me here. It doesn't make any sense ... My wife and daughter are living there and I am stuck with my parents back here. There's no sense in it. I've done enough for them. I know they are getting old, but they've also got my sister, not just me. Let her take care of them for a change. That's the only solution. After all, you only have one life. What do you think?"