Postscript

JTK Taylor
The three of us began working on my poor unsuspecting husband straight after lunch. It was Saturday afternoon and the family was out at the beach house at Shk쮢i i Kavaj쳮
September is often the best of the Summer months, late Summer, but still pleasantly hot, not sticky, sweaty, August hot when not even the coolness of the sea waters provides relief. The white walls of the bungalow and the brick coloured roof tiles, coated in dry and brittle pine tree needles, (that will clog the drainpipes when the Winter rains set in), the dark green window shutters and the clusters of vivid scarlet, orange and white begonia that form a beautiful floral crown in their flower beds atop the white decorative railing of the veranda, the stately roses of all shades of pink and yellow sway gently in the breeze on their long stalks in the rose beds lining the length of the knee-high front fence, a green fence to match the shutters, the neatly cropped lawns and the large round flag stones, imbedded in the soil to form a meandering footpath up to the steps of the veranda; the white hammock strung up between two pine trees, covered with colourful cushions, and all of this idyllic setting lies beneath the dense foliage of the tall pines trees overhanging the roofs of the bungalows, in the first of the popular family beach resorts, known in Albania as “tourist villages,” but which have very little to do with foreign tourism, as the properties belong chiefly to Albania’s new affluent stratum.
After all is said and done, the issue was quite simple. I wanted to stay the night at the beach and Besnik wanted us both to go back to Tirana. To me it seemed such a pity not to take advantage of the wonderful weather and spend Sunday at the beach too, although I knew we had work to do at home, as we are busy packing clothing and kitchenware to shift into a new apartment.
Finally he gave in and even drove off through the tunnel of pine trees without the slightest trace of regret.
Sinking back down into the comfortable cushions of the chairs on the veranda, Flora Vali and I chattered happily while my Mother-in-Law busied herself in the kitchen with making us all a cup of coffee. I love these moments when the womenfolk of the family get together to exchange titbits of information usually about the men folk of the family and our children; how business is going and the latest whims of our now adult children, four of whom live and work in other countries.
My mobile phone rang, and unconsciously rummaging around at the bottom of my handbag searching for the annoying instrument, my fingers pushed up against a heavy bunch of keys. I froze. “Oh, my God, Besnik has left without his house keys,” I gasped, immediately visualizing my husband’s reaction when, standing in front of the door, he recalls that he dropped his keys into my bag because I had insisted on him wearing a pair of shorts I liked, but he hated because they have no pockets. Gone was the magic moment of relaxing and chatting over a coffee. Amidst the futile fussing of my Mother-in-Law, and the offers of my sister-in-law to leave for Tirana right away in her car, it occurred to me that our cleaning lady, in Tirana, had a key, but she had told me that her home phone was out of order. I thought I would track her down first and then ring Besnik on his mobile phone and tell him he had no house key. I sat down at the table and got down to the serious work of disturbing three or four persons on a Saturday evening because I had forgotten to give Besnik his keys. I rank Miranda, a colleague, who originally found our cleaning lady for us and who often gets me out of such silly fixes. Miranda said she would phone a close friend of hers and get the phone number of the daughter-in-law of my cleaning lady as they lived together. Miranda duly SMS-ed me Bruna’s mobile phone number and I found myself embarrassingly explaining the situation to her, so that Bruna could relay the message to her Mother-in Law, our cleaning lady, and we could arrange a spot somewhere near her house, where Besnik could go and pick up her key to our house. Bruna interrupted my long-winded explanations and said she was sorry but her Mother-in-Law, our cleaning lady, now the central figure of the latest family mess-up, had gone out. She said reassuringly that she would ring around for her. Minutes later Bruna rang back to say that she had pinpointed where her Mother-in-Law was and would get the message to her to come home ASAP. After profusely thanking Bruna, I hung up. This was becoming a nightmare. I thought I would give Bruna more time to get back to me before I rang Besnik so I could break the news to him but also give him a solution.
Almost half an hour later, certain that by this time Besnik had reached Tirana, I had still not heard from Bruna, so I gave Besnik a ring. He had arrived some minutes earlier, realized he did not have a key to the old house but he did have a key to the new apartment and so he was heading in that direction to stay there for the night.
There was a collective sigh of relief around the table as that drama ended and I rang Bruna immediately, apologised for disturbing her and said she didn’t have to disturb Fia or the family any further as the problem had been solved.
We all decided to go for a stroll along the waterline. I took my phone with me. Paddling through the ripples of the waves on the sand, listening to the conversation around me, my phone rang. “I need to get into the old house,” Besnik says on the other end. “What’s Fia’s number and I can go and get her key?” I sent him Bruna’s number, but told him Bruna would not be pleased.
The rest of this story was later on related to me by Fia. Fia was standing in her local bakery when Bruna had rushed in having spotted her from outside and told her she had to hurry home because Besnik needed the key she had to our house. Fia had rushed out of the bakery and run home. Bruna related the whole story to her and said she had just spoken to Besnik. Besnik finally met up with Fia and Bruna, got the key and went on his way. Fia related that she got home only to realize that in her haste, she had forgotten the bread she had bought in the bakery, which by that time had closed. After borrowing some bread from her next door neighbour for her grand children, Fia’s family had settled down to watch some television for the evening. Bruna’s phone rings. Bruna cannot believe her ears. It was the manager of the company she works for who had misplaced his keys to the office. Could Bruna possibly go down to the end of her street to the bus station and wait for her boss’s driver to turn up and give him her keys.
Fia said she could not help chuckling to her self as her daughter-in-law slammed the outside door. “It was just one of those days, thank God the Keepers of the Keys were available to oblige.”