Free Bitter Bronx by Jerome Charyn

“virgin warriors” among the Dukagjinis, women who fought and dressed as mountain men. A popular myth was that all Albanians were descended from this one warrior-prince, who watered the highland lakes and many a mountain woman with his sperm and his blood; he lost his limbs in battle, dispatched ten thousand Turks. And the current prince of Bathgate Avenue was named after this ferocious man, as one of his lieutenants explained while she sipped her tea.
    Lord Lekë was responsible for the welfare of every single Albanian in the Bronx. Daughters could not be married without his consent. Old men would come to him at any hour in fits of depression. Their lord would heal them with a bear hug and a hot glass of tea. He would appear at births and deaths, but he himself had fathered no one, did not have a child. And that is why his minions were so curious about the woman next to his cowboy boots. Was their baba in love?
    She bowed to him. “You must not harm my fiancé. How has he wronged you?”
    â€œHe exists,” said Lord Lekë. “That is enough of a wound. He blocks my avenue, mamzelle.”
    â€œAnd what avenue could that be?” Angela asked like a counselor-at-law.
    â€œMy avenue from me to you.”
    But she outsmarted this Bronx mountain bandit. She meant to murder him in front of all his minions—with a cat lady’s kiss.
    â€œYou are mistaken, my lord. He hasn’t blocked this avenue at all. Haven’t I come to your club?”
    â€œTo plead for his life.”
    â€œNot at all,” she said, and she could feel her whiskers growing. “Would my lord care for a kiss?”
    But she didn’t understand Bronx mountain lore. No woman, descended from the Dukagjinis or not, could demand a kiss from Lord Lekë, the baba of the Bronx. It was Lekë’s right to appear in a woman’s bedroom and ravish her, even with a husband at her side—it brought luck and long life to copulate with their lord, and husbands often delivered their own wives to Lord Lekë, but he wouldn’t ravish them. He kissed them on the forehead and sent them home.
    The lord’s minions surrounded Angela with a menacing air. Lekë rose off his pillow to rant at them.
    â€œBrothers, you will insult your king if you hurt this lady. She is a Latina. She does not understand our ways. . . . You must escort her home.”
    He collapsed onto his pillow and closed his eyes. Meanwhile, a horde of men and women accompanied her to Arthur Avenue like some miraculous honor guard.
    She couldn’t even find her balding knight. He vanished from St. Barnabas, left a note and a thousand dollars in crisp new bills.
    Angela, I have a very small future here.
    Your loving friend, Robertson
    She wouldn’t return to that madcap social club with all its riddles. She waited until Lord Lekë appeared at Dominick’s with his clan. And while he sampled the pasta dishes with a look of utter ravishment, she went up to him and tossed the thousand dollars into his eyes. The rapture was gone, but he would allow none of his minions to rise from the table.
    â€œWhat is my crime, Miss Angela?”
    â€œYou sent my man away and had him throw silver into my eyes—a thousand dollars.”
    â€œI did no such thing,” said this lord of the Albanians. “I invited your fiancé to leave. I paid him, yes, but it wasn’t blood money or a bribe. And it was much, much more than a thousand. He swindled you, I think. Mine was an honest proposal. I could break his leg or he could have a monthly stipend from me. He took the stipend. Sit down. Join us at the table, and my men will worship you forever. You’ll be our queen.”
    Angela was trembling now. “Keep away from me, or I’ll rip your heart out.”
    Lord Lekë began to laugh. “Children, she has fire. . . . Don’t bring me heiresses, or lady bankers. My heart is locked. I will have no one but her as my