those pale lights in the distance were from King Zog’s villa. Besfort thought they might be. The heir to the throne and his court had recently returned to Albania, along with Queen Geraldine. The newspapers reported that she was close to death.
“Incredible,” she said after a pause. He wanted to know what she found incredible, and she tried to answer, but her words were partly obliterated by the sound of the sea. The restaurants along the road with their Hollywood names were incredible, and so were the villas with their private swimming pools, the former communists turning into oligarchs, the former middle classes turning into God knows what and the glimmering lights of the Royal Court with their tug of nostalgia.
For some reason she wanted to burst into tears. Besfort and his madness were stranger than all these things – and so was she herself as she followed him through that darkness.
They could hardly find their way back. Don’t turn down your coat collar, he said, when they were close to the motel. She wanted to ask why, but remembered the false names and said nothing. They ordered supper in their room. There were all kinds of specialities and expensive wines on the menu. The proprietor recommended game, just delivered, and Italian Gaja wine, the prime minister’s favourite. A likely story, said Besfort. But he made no objection.
When they were left alone, their eyes met tenderly. Usually after a glance of this sort, she would say, “How happy I am with you!” He waited to hear the words, but saw her hesitate. He bowed his head.
Really, nothing was the same as before.
She said something else he could not catch, as if it were in a strange language. “What?” he asked softly. She asked him if she should get changed, wear something more, you know, stylish, for supper.
“Of course,” he replied. Just like a call girl, he thought.
Her black velvet dress accentuated the unbearable whiteness of her decolletage and the exposed sides of her breasts that drove him to distraction. He could not believe that he had slept with her hundreds of times. Or just two hours before.
“Just now, when we were by the sea, we saw the lights of Zog’s villa and I remembered what you told me last time about the bogus conspirators.”
“Really?”
“Don’t be so surprised. I never forget anything you tell me.”
She touched her forehead, as people do when making fun of themselves. “I kept thinking of what you said during those three weeks when I was writing the part of my dissertation about the conspiracies against King Zog.”
“And what were those conspiracies like?”
Finally she laughed. There were pale crimson patches on her cheeks and neck from the wine.
“At least they were real.”
“I’m sure they were. But you’ll tell me later, won’t you.”
From the way they looked at each other, they seemed to be thinking the same thing. That at least the hour after midnight would be the same as before.
“You’ll tell me about the plots against the king, and I’ll tell you something else.”
“Really?” she said. “What fun!”
“Goddess, tell me about the plots against the king, the real ones.”
“We didn’t give real names at the reception,” said Rovena teasingly.
He did not reply. His expression was stony.
She cast playful glances at him, but his face in profile became even more rigid.
“Do you remember the first time we went to the Loreley?” he asked suddenly, coming round.
“The singles club? What made you think of that now?” said Rovena. “That must be four or five years ago.”
He laughed.
“More like four or five centuries.”
With a relaxed smile, she waited for him to sit down beside her again. He held in his hand a small book bound in burgundy.
“Four or five centuries? Did you really mean that?”
“That’s what I said.” Besfort took a deep breath. “Do you remember when we opened the door to the Loreley. I don’t think we were the first couple to feel shocked. It was the fear of breaking a taboo.”
He would never forget that late afternoon when, both hiding their nervousness, they got ready to go there. As they moved round the room, they lowered their voices.
The most hurtful pang was to see her lengthy preparations in the bathroom. He watched her through the half- open door: her concentration in front of the mirror, touching up her eyelashes, giving some last attention to her underarms. This was the first time he had seen her getting ready not just for him, but for all the male sex.
“Of course I remember,” she replied.
Besfort gave her a penetrating look. “Everybody thinks this is a new, modern experience, but it’s been well known down the ages. At least it was described four or five centuries ago in this story.”
Rovena read aloud the title of the little book: “Miguel Cervantes,
“Exactly. Long before he produced his full translation, Fan Noli published this extract, to whet his readers’ appetites. No doubt about it, this describes an early version of a modern singles club.”
“How extraordinary,” she said.
“And to think that Noli was a long-faced bishop of Albania. And a conspirator, I think. You will know more about it.”
“Not just a conspirator, but the absolute linchpin. He was involved in at least three plots.”
“It’s an uncanny story,” Besfort went on.
He had made notes in the margin while reading, as if interpreting an occult text.
She was leafing though it with curiosity, but Besfort gently took it out of her hands.
“You can have a look at it after supper.”
He raised his glass.
“The wine is delicious, but I think I’ve drunk enough,” Rovena said.
Her cheeks bore the blush that naturally brings love to mind. At the entrance to the Loreley her face had been pale. He now knew for certain that she was attracted to the prospect of transgression, avoid it as she might.
“I’ll take a shower,” said Besfort. “You’ve got time to look through that little book, if you like.”
“I certainly will,” she said. “I can hardly wait.”
Chapter Nine
Under the jet of hot water, Besfort tried to imagine what Rovena would make of the medieval Spanish city and the two inseparable friends, Lothario and Anselmo. And the sweet Camilla, the latter’s bride who unwittingly becomes the reason why Lothario cools slightly towards his bosom friend. The newlyweds notice this coldness and it worries them.
Besfort imagined Rovena’s tapered fingers turning the pages.
So the young couple are concerned. They encourage their friend to come to them as before, and to make their home his own. Lothario visits, but nervously. He is scared of rumours. But the couple are not worried about these at all. The shadow of anxiety that Lothario sometimes sees cross his friend’s brow has a quite different cause. One day Anselmo opens his heart. He is gnawed by an obsession, one that might drive him mad. Of course he is happy with his bride, but he cannot allay this pain. It involves a suspicion. Lothario should not stare like that. This suspicion is about nothing less than Camilla’s constancy.
Besfort knew that Rovena’s delicate fingers would turn the pages eagerly.
Wait, Anselmo says to his friend, not letting him speak. He knows what he’s going to say. He also knows that his Camilla is spotlessly pure. But… can a woman be called virtuous if she has never had the chance to be wicked?
