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My taxi driver is speeding through the back roads of Tirana, Albania, gesticulating about his exceedingly heinous wife and the country’s exceedingly heinous politicians. Meanwhile, my feet and purse are vibrating on a patch of plywood holding the underbody of his Mercedes Benz together. With every word, the airport fades away. We arrive at my friend’s home, a two-story brutalist structure with patriotic lawn chairs. I’ve returned to comfort her grandfather Zeqo, who’s now 90 years old. He spent most of his youth in a labor camp, digging mass graves he’d later disguise as a field of rye; but when I first met him, I just loved how he haggled street vendors over fake Armani. On one of his shopping trips, he bought me a perfume decanter in the shape of a dagger. I asked, “What’s remotely as good as a knife-shaped decanter?” He replied, “An American radio.” From the driveway, I can tell their living room now doubles as a makeshift casino. Out waddles Zeqo’s spirited four-foot wife with outstretched arms. As we embrace, we exchange kiss after kiss after kiss after kiss. When I ask about Zeqo, her delight subsides. She leads me into their bedroom where I see him lying in bed, mouth agape, staring at the ceiling. I lean over and gently press my lips into his sunken cheek before whispering in his ear, “I brought you a radio.” He blinks in response. My friend Lorina rushes in, insisting I immediately meet her fiancé. I acquiesce to leaving Zeqo’s side for a quick espresso in the neighborhood, but espresso evolves into dinner atop Mount Dajti. As we raise our glasses to toast their engagement, her mother calls. Descending the mountain in complete silence, I’m disappointed I allowed myself to wander. The second we hit ground, we begin to run. Breathing in petroleum, roasted chestnuts and sulfur, we dodge fireworks cast in our direction by impudent teenage boys. Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. When I enter Zeqo’s bedroom, I’m shoved out by strangers. One of them points, “Women in that room.” Refusing, I grab the doorframe while a roomful of men transfers his body to a bedsheet. I whisper, “I love you, I’m sorry,” through shallow breaths while his corpse is rolled back and forth. Lorina digs her nails into my arm and screams. We’re pushed into the dimly lit room of mourning women rocking in wooden chairs. Her mother tells us to quickly replace the curtains, beat the rugs and mop the floors. Visitors will start to arrive tonight. According to Balkan belief, the soul travels for 40 days after death. During these 40 days, radios are prohibited. Neighbors, friends and relatives ring the doorbell at all hours of day and night. While preparing the usual refreshments, I overhear Zeqo’s wife say he waited for my return before dying. I quietly deliver the soaked apricots and Turkish coffee, then head downstairs to their bedroom. Imagining his body days before, I lay on his bed, let my mouth gape and stare at the ceiling. The sound of catfights and motorbikes fills the room then disappears. My lungs pause on an exhale. The tablecloth on his nightstand slips slightly, exposing a photograph I’d taken of us after dancing to “Feliz Navidad.” I remember the scene – I clapped when expected, he danced Albanian folk. He formed his wrinkled hands into crab-like pincers, threw them in the air and, bouncing his shoulders, tiptoed around the living room grunting on the downbeat. Now that I’m holding this photo, I realize that both of us were traveling. We share the same eager and charmed expressions. He apparently thinks he also looks old because he’s taped his passport photo from the ‘70s over his face. I carefully replace it, turn the photo over and, inscribed in his tremored handwriting, read: Sunday, December 28. This is the most memorable day of my life as it was the day I spent with Cara, the American. This photo was taken and printed on the 28th of December by Cara, the American. I will remember her until the day I die. Zeqo.