| missed what he had said. “Excuse me,” she asked. “Did you say the Albanian material?” “Yes, madame. From the Bibliothèque Nationale in Tirana.” “You’re kidding!” He was offended. “I assure you that I am not kidding. Why are you surprised? We have reciprocal exchanges with many national libraries. We may not be Harvard University. But we are quite modern here, you know.” “I wasn’t being critical. I was just surprised. The Albanians have some documents I was looking for—am looking for, I mean—for my thesis.” “And what documents might those be?” “The Ibrahim Temo papers. He was one of the founders of the Union and Progress Committee.” “Ah! I am sorry.” “You don’t have them?” “Not anymore, madame.” “What do you mean?” “We did have some of the Temo documents, but only very briefly. It was necessary to return them to Tirana, one month ago.” “Oh no!” said Anna. “That’s awful.” “You see, we are quite a modern library.” “Now I’ll never see them. The Albanians don’t give visas to Americans.” “I am very sorry.” Anna was disconsolate, suffering under that special weight of regret that comes from discovering—too late—that you might have had something, had you only known it was available. Even the snippy curator could see that she was upset. “Madame, if I may suggest. Perhaps you would like to see the Greek scholar who worked with the Temo collection while it was here?” Anna’s eyes brightened. “Yes, I suppose I would, if that’s |
cassette deck was playing the sound of a Bach cantata; in the back of the truck was a hamper containing a loaf of French bread, some ham and salami, several varieties of cheese, a jar of mustard and a bottle of white Burgundy. And a blanket. Anna was waiting outside the motel, wearing a sundress—looking as ripe and ready as a bud that has been waiting all year to bloom. She greeted Taylor with a kiss. “Hop up,” he said. “Let’s go for a ride.” “Where are we going, rug man?” “To a secret hideaway, where even serious career women can do exactly what they want.” They drove to the Beltway, crossed the Potomac, and then headed west along Route 66, toward Winchester. The landscape was pure Virginia: low scrub brush along the side of the road, giving way to lush green fields and tall trees and, in the distance, the rolling hills of the Blue Ridge. They passed grand horse farms and dark hollows dotted with rickety shacks. Taylor seemed to know where he was going, and Anna no longer cared to ask. She put her feet up on the dashboard, let the wind blow through her hair, and hummed along with the Bach tape. Just past a little town called Marshall, Taylor turned off the main highway and headed up a two-lane road. That became a one-lane road, and then, heading up much more steeply, a dirt road overgrown on the sides with wild shrubs and vines |
