“Prende” he stops and glares at me, “listen to me. You don’t know what you’re involved in. I’m trying to help you.”
“Then tell me what’s going on.”
“Later. Now be good and go.”
I leave, but I still have no answers and it’s driving me nuts.
I don’t know if I can trust Besnik. What about Papa? Who was he and what was he involved why is that such a big fucking secret?
Besnik didn’t give me a chance to share my concerns and won’t even listen to what I have to say about the body.
I head home. Who knows when he’ll be by.
Now I’m a bit paranoid and check behind me before I let myself into my condo. Once inside, it’s too quiet, so I click on the TV.
I expect Papa to come through the door at any minute and when he doesn’t, I busy myself tackling all the stuff I need to take care of before the funeral. The place needs to be cleaned because everyone will come by with food and alcohol. It will be the longest day of my life, made all the more difficult by my newfound distrust of Besnik.
My hip is leaning against the kitchen sink as I do dishes and cook dinner. A movie from the 1980s playing in the background. This reminds me of spending time with Mama. When Papa was out all night, you could find us curled up on the couch, watching movies she grew up with and nibbling on waffles covered in Nutella. I miss that.
Now I’m craving pasta and while I wait for the water to boil, I decide to unpack a suitcase. While I’m busy stuffing clothes back into my drawers, it hits me.
What is in Papa’s suitcase? I rush to the hallway and grab his luggage. Did Besnik want to go through them when he dropped me off yesterday? Or am I just letting my imagination run away with me?
I make sure the door to the condo is locked before I kneel on the tiled floor and unzip the suitcase. I don’t really expect to find anything. It’s just my childlike imagination and paranoia taking over.
I pause, looking at his winter sweaters neatly folded and dress shirts individually wrapped in tissue paper to prevent wrinkles. Papa took pride in always looking good no matter where he went.
Reluctant to mess up the contents, I pull out Papa’s favorite black sweater and put it to my face. His scent still lingers, and I inhale deeply. The sound of something small hitting the tiled floor breaks my concentration. I look down and see an envelope and a small black book that wasn’t there a second ago.
What in the love of all that is holy is this?
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I pick up the fat envelope and open it. Inside is a stack of euros, too many to count. Thousands of euros are here.
How did he get this? Who does it belong to? My first assumption is that it was for our trip, but everything was paid for using his credit card. He did use cash when tipping, but there’s more here than he could have used in a lifetime of tipping.
Fanning the money through my hands in disbelief, I wonder, is this money ours? Is someone going to come looking for this—like in the movies? Does this explain the creepy man eyeing me at the ski lodge? Did he know Papa had this? Does Besnik?
The phone rings, interrupting my thoughts, and I look at the caller ID. It’s Mila. Oh no, I forgot to get back to her earlier. She must be worried.
I can’t tell her what’s going on. If my life is in danger, her’s will be too. I need to just be patient, which is really hard for me. I was tested in school, and it was determined I’m an ‘achiever personality’ which means I don’t let things sit.
Thankful for Mila’s call, I put on a chipper front and catch my pasta that’s about to boil over.
“I’m fine, fixing my favorite comfort food, gooey American mac and cheese. It’s so good, right?”
“Yeah, I know, a real game changer. So how did it go?”
“I won’t be able to get another autopsy like I wanted to. Who really trusts the state workers here? Besides, it’s too complicated and too expensive.”
Mila chats away and I’m guilty of half listening as I pick up the book, rubbing my hand over the cover, feeling the leather last touched by my father. Satisfied with the memory, I open it to see everything written in what looks like Albanian or some sort of code. The letters don’t spell real names. Instead, they spell funny names, like nicknames. Next to the nicknames are numbers and small symbols that must mean something.
“I’m glad you called because I was thinking of you,” I tell Mila.
“Really? That’s sweet. I know you have a lot on your mind but I’m here for you, Prende. I expected you to stay home today but when I saw you, I was glad you came in. I can’t imagine how you handled everything so well at the store today. By that I mean, that mouth watering Italian guy. Wow!”
“Right? Just my luck, I meet a gorgeous man at the worst time ever, but he was nice,” I say, mixing the packets and noodles and then sitting at the table as I tuck my legs under me like a kid and stare at the money on the table.
“Yeah, I got that impression,” she snickers. “I thought he was going to kiss you right in the store. You two were so close to each other, it was perfect.”