Selim woke up at his usual hour in the morning, slightly dazed. His wife was shuffling her way out of their bed and in the dim light of the bedroom he could see her hair. It was messed up and puffed; never a good sign.
For the past few days he has been feeling a certain anxiety building up inside him. And today, when he walked out of their rundown apartment building in a side street behind the Tabakeve Mosque in Tirana, he sensed that things were coming to a climax. The atmosphere, which has been thickening for days, was now almost corrosive. It rubbed people into a raw state. Selim shook his head. That is not good. No, Sir!
Selim is 65 years old and retired. He spent his life working as a truck driver, first for one of the state’s heavy machinery factories on the outskirts of the capital and afterwards, in recognition for his strong commitment to the communist party, he was one of a handful of truckers allowed to transport goods between Albania and the outside world; a status that allowed him to make some extra cash on the side once in a while.
Now, he spends his days drinking coffee, reading newspapers and watching television. He has a daughter living with them and working at a bank, and a son who is in Italy working as a mechanic. He owns his apartment and with the money his son sends him every month and what his daughter earns, they make do. It could be worse. A lot worse. Selim knew this, and he was grateful.
Selim’s head was full of thoughts as he sought his local to meet up with friends of similar demeanors; a daily ritual, unless it is raining. For months now he has been contemplating asking his son and daughter to pay for an airline ticket and expenses so that he can make the pilgrimage to Mecca. Perhaps it is time.
Selim was not a religious man. His wife is Albanian Orthodox; not an uncommon combination under communism when all citizens were coaxed into ignoring all sorts of conviction except what the party espoused. In their household, they observed both Christian and Muslim holidays. So did many of their neighbors and friends.
No, it was not about religion. Selim was getting older by the day and he wanted to find a way to God. And the way he was most familiar with was that of his father and grandfather before him. He wanted to die in peace and he was a truck driver, through and through. And any truck driver worth his wheels would tell you that to get from point A to point B you need to map out a course; a road with as few obstacles as can be.
Back in the early 1990s after Albania opened up, many Christian missionaries came in and set about preaching. Selim was invited to several of these new churches and he attended some Sundays. But, as his trucking days in Europe taught him, the more south you are, the closer you are to the heart of old Europe. And, to him, old Europe was Catholic and Orthodox. It will take a long time for reformation of any kind to gain traction over here.
But it also did not make sense to Selim to become Catholic or Orthodox. For him, converting meant you cared about religion, and he did not; he was looking for God and did not care which road took him to Him because, again, as any good truck driver would tell you, there is more than one good way to get to one place. The safest approach is to follow the road you know best. Especially as you get older, your eyes weaken and your senses dim. Taking new roads is for the young, when the mind is fresh and unburdened and the spirit is free and eager.
Selim’s local was in the Bllok; a block in the center of Tirana where the former communist nomenclatura lived and worked and now a raging spot of nightlife and a coveted space of apartments and offices. And to get to the Bllok, Selim had to cross the main boulevard; Tirana’s main street running from the university at one end to the train station at the other.
Selim’s legs are not as strong as they used to be. All those days and nights working the pedals in his communist standard issue class A truck left their toll on his muscles, lower back and joints. And if the traffic lights were not working, crossing that boulevard of lost dreams can become a nightmare at his age and in his state.
And as luck would have it, the lights were off. There was a policeman waving his hands and blowing at his whistle trying to steer traffic. But Selim knew better. He knew that his compatriots discovered speed in the 1990s and did not quite have their fill of it yet. He also knew that authority, any authority, in his country was deliciously ignored.
Selim stood on the sidewalk next to the dark, cold traffic lights and stomped his cane three times on the ground as if Moses wishing to part the Red Sea before him. He then attempted, in the cover of a small group of fellow pedestrians, to cross, unhindered by fear or foe, to the other side. The policeman stared at them with a look of resignation on his face. There was nothing he could do…
And the brave trek commenced. They were a group of about 8, of mixed ages and gender, huddled together, trying to summon courage from thin air and exhaust fumes. Horns where blowing in all kinds of tones and decibels. Tires were screeching.
Halfway through the crossing, Selim began to hum a tune, something from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, in anticipation of an Ode to Joy he was hoping to experience once he arrives at the other side of the boulevard.
It was at that moment that Selim’s mouth went dry. He had a faint taste of silver on his tongue. He raised his eyes to the sky and he could see the screechy blue color that has been hanging up there for the past few days gathering speed. And he shouted to himself in a voice that no one would have heard: Are you leaving or staying? I’m not coming with you. I am a professional truck driver and I have to know where I am going before I start my engine!
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