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Where
the Thunder
Comes From
It’s
raining a little
and the men
working in the
street behind
Rruga Myslym
Shyri have sheltered
in a square
concrete hut
with a corrugated
tin roof. The
far side of
the pavement
is being laid
with fancy little
beige and pink
paving stones
which form a
pattern of alternate
beige and pink
at the borders,
with diagonal
pink patterns
in the middle,
spaced at regular
intervals. The
other side is
all broken up,
preparatory
to being laid
with the same
even and ornate
little stones
that the far
side is in the
process of enjoying.
When
it rains, a
hush falls over
the city. The
traffic stops
so there is
no sound of
hooting cars;
cement-mixing
machines stop,
hammering stops,
people stop
shouting to
each other,
so it becomes
peaceful as
well as refreshing,
with just the
dripping sound
of the rain.
******
Oh
its hot said
Ilir, opening
the window.
Anna went over
to it while
he returned
to his desk,
scribbling something
on a piece of
paper, avoiding
the neat piles
of printed pages,
laid out in
the centre of
the long desk.
The view from
Ilir’s office
on the 6th floor
looked down
onto some birch
trees, swaying
in the breeze,
bordering the
park where a
fountain played.
Beyond the city,
the peaks of
Dajti mountain
were surrounded
with clouds,
like a king
fussed over
by his adoring
retinue.
It
wasn’t hot at
all Anna thought.
The early rain
had made the
air deliciously
cool. Even when
the cloud had
moved away as
smoothly as
an unrolling
blind, each
curve and crack
in the roads
and pavements
had kept their
little puddles
of water and
when she stepped
on one uneven
flagstone a
funnel of water
shot up, drenching
her feet and
sandals and
several inches
of her trousers.
But she laughed
at this, for
today was one
of those days
that are special
for no reason,
placed in your
hand like a
soft peach or
a love-note
in a language
you do not understand,
given to you
by an anonymous
donor, who slips
away before
you have time
to register
anything more
than a pressed
fold in the
damp air, displaced
by the giver’s
supple movement.
She
could think
of no heralds
hinting at this
day’s extraordinary
gift, unless
it was the rain,
turning the
city into a
silent place.
Everything stopped
and gave way
for the rain
- the traffic,
the hammering
and churning
sounds of beaten
flagstones and
cement mixers,
they all vanished
in the pounding
of the rain
on tin roofs,
and the splattering
sound of water
streaming from
overflow pipes
and landing
on gravel or
tin coverings
or canvas canopies
hung over balconies.
Yes,
perhaps it was the rain
that had been the messenger
of something special, though
at first it had seemed like
an inconvenience only and
she had put off going out
until it had abated. She’d
then headed for the market
and bought an umbrella at
the first stall that had
them on display. Quattro
cento lek it had cost her
and as soon as she put it
up, the rain stopped, almost
immediately.
It
was odd, she thought, how
temperature affected distance.
Usually, it seemed like
quite a long way from the
market to the Piazza café,
especially when you had
to wait at the traffic lights
at the top of Rruga Kavaje,
where there were no shady
trees to stand under. Heat
slows everything down, your
pace is much more leisurely,
you walk entranced by sunlight,
to a different rhythm. But
when the air is cooler and
you are made bold by the
cloud-skin sheltering you
from the burning sun, your
pace speeds up, you cover
distances as if your feet
had wings attached to them,
your strides are worthy
of a giant and you dodge
easily among the traffic,
avoiding the spray from
water that’s collected in
the potholes.
She
turns away from the window
and Ilir hands her the piece
of paper he’s been writing
on, with a languid flourish.
Anna was looking for more
editing work and Ilir had
been doing some research
for her.
That’s
the email addresses of three
organizations you can contact,
he says.
You’re
doing all this for me and
you’ve so much work to do
yourself, she says.
Oh
it can wait till tomorrow.
It’s really only proof-reading
now, I’ve read it twice
already and the thought
of reading it again is just
too appalling. Besides,
it’s so hot –
I
thought you had air conditioning,
she says.
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