An extract from Misinterpretation by Ledia Xhoga

I was fifteen minutes late and his phone number was out of service. 

Even in late January, Washington Square Park pulsed with the energy of summer. The chess players were fretting over their moves to the sound of Gershwin. The saxophonist’s great dane was pining for the dog run. It was Alfred who had suggested meeting here, next to the statue of Garibaldi, a name that brought to mind fragmented pieces of Italy glued together. It was an old mnemonic from high school; Garibaldi was responsible for Italy’s unification. But Alfred was nowhere to be seen. Two men on a nearby bench didn’t match his description. He’d be alone. The agency sent photo attachments, which I rarely bothered opening. It was easy to recognise my clients from the look of expectancy, the humble bearing, the wear and tear that showed on their faces and bodies. That his phone was out of service was odd. Had they sent me the wrong phone number? 

The sound of footsteps. A toddler with squeaky shoes bumped into me, followed by her father and an excessive apology. Two boys holding a mini drone scurried towards the empty fountain. An elderly man was checking his watch. Could he be Alfred? He was far from the statue. Had he given up on waiting for me at our meeting spot? The man looked in his sixties. According to his file, Alfred was only in his early forties, just a few years older than me. Was it his preoccupation with his watch that made him look older? He hunched over it the same way my grandfather used to while winding up his Volna, a watch he’d bought in Moscow in the fifties. I walked towards him. Where was his phone, anyway? 

‘Alfred?’ I said, relieved that I managed to put the accent on the second vowel, the Albanian way. ‘I’m sorry for being late.’ He straightened his back and waved his arm forgivingly. He did look younger from up close. His face seemed stuck in between expressions. It reminded me of an unfinished Rubik’s Cube we kept around the house, which I could never resist trying to solve. ‘I was worried you were waiting somewhere else,’ he said, rubbing his sunken eyes. ‘I saw another woman over there and thought it was you.’ 

‘Is your phone out of service?’

‘It stopped working this morning. I don’t know why.’ 

‘Is your dentist around here? Shouldn’t we get going?’ 

His answer sounded muddled. The translation agency that employed me had been sending Kosovar Albanians my way. Their accent was different from mine. It took me a few seconds to get used to it, for me to understand the words immediately. We walked under the Arch and headed towards the street. I was hoping the dentist would still be willing to see him – we were late for our 6 p.m. appointment. While looking for their number on my phone, I felt a tug on my arm. Alfred was holding on to my elbow. 

‘Be careful.’ 

An SUV had run a red light. It was speeding away now, only a few steps from us. That he was a survivor of torture flashed in my mind again. I didn’t know what kind of torture it had been and was not allowed to ask for details. When his hand slid down my arm, the goose bumps surprised me.