Misinterpretation – Ledia Xhoga

[Tin House; 2024]

In January, Washington Square Park is filled with life and the sounds of a saxophone. An empty fountain is all that announces winter. Further uptown, a Soviet-inspired bar boasts weekly poetry readings with a crowd of young writers and artists ready to contribute their literary talents to the exuberant city. Meanwhile, in a buzzing city square in Eastern Europe, old important government buildings, all once dazzling feats of architecture, are surrounded by skeletons of soon-to-be skyscrapers, each one telling its counterpart that it does not belong there. Tirana’s center square is surrounded by traditional houses and narrow streets, whose inhabitants shake their heads at the modern establishments that have materialized haphazardly in recent years, wondering to themselves, is it so necessary for things to change?

Ledia Xhoga’s debut novel, Misinterpretation, is about cultural drift. Her protagonist is a young interpreter and translator, originally from Albania, who lives a relatively comfortable, if seemingly uninteresting, life in New York City with her husband Billy, a film professor. Her world begins to shift when she receives an assignment to interpret for Alfred, a Kosovar Albanian torture survivor. Alfred immediately trusts her:

“I need an interpreter for my visits at the psychiatrist,” Alfred said. “I haven’t found anyone I trust.”

I hesitated. Sitting through his therapy sessions wouldn’t be easy.

“I know we just met,” he went on. “But I trust you. I don’t trust many people.”

Does this immediate familiarity come from their shared background or something that is harder to put into words? The protagonist cannot tell—nor can she possibly anticipate the memories that Alfred will bring to the surface.

Beyond this pair, Xhoga’s cast is Fellinian in range, comicality, and the dreamlike manner in which they wander in and out of the interpreter’s life: a mysterious older neighbor described as an aging starlet from Sunset Boulevard, a violinist friend who travels the world and brings back expensive gifts, a Kurdish poet seeking asylum from her abusive husband, forgotten ex-roommates, and several Albanian immigrants, all with their own set of battles and beliefs. Although these characters may come across as exaggerated or stereotypical at first, Xhoga grounds them and fleshes them out with each new appearance. Every character’s thoughts and language are distinct and will immediately evoke images of people the reader has met. I find this especially true in her depiction of characters who are immigrants. For instance, the protagonist’s cousin, Alma, who works as cleaning staff in Greece, is treated and talked about by her family in a way that will resonate with many immigrants who are expected to do better for themselves than the families they leave behind: “I told myself I’ll focus on succeeding which means making money. I’m not going to end up like Alma, cleaning toilets,” says Alma’s sister Lina to the protagonist. By using Albanian idioms, rendered in English, Xhoga conveys the experience of someone who not only lives between two worlds but also between two languages, who often has their thoughts intercepted by the other. At times, the author uses elements in a character’s English speech to give the reader clues about their social class or the length of time they have lived in America. As an Albanian student in the States, I found that many of the characters’ experiences rang familiar, that characters reminded me of acquaintances and even family.

The protagonist’s introspective journey leads her back to her childhood, to Albania. Once again, Xhoga presents in writing exactly how it feels to come back to one’s roots after living abroad, along with the strange sensations one gets when they see how spaces that used to be familiar are no longer so. “Tirana was overwhelming as usual” Xhoga writes, but the protagonist’s family has not been able to keep up with the change. The interpreter confronts her mother, who refuses to leave the house since the death of her husband. She attempts to mend their strained relationship, inviting her to dinner at a stylish new restaurant, but ends up feeling embarrassment at her mother’s behavior. The interpreter’s uncle also struggles to let go of ghosts; obsessed with their family’s history, he has become absorbed in having the state declare her late great-grandfather a World War II hero. Although her family is stuck in the past, the protagonist refuses to stay there.

Xhoga’s strength does not end with her characters: Her depiction of New York’s literary and art scene feels aspirational yet tangible at the same time. When our narrator and protagonist attends the poetry reading of a friend, the event entices and excites the reader—somehow likening the protagonist’s emotions to our own.

Honey bursting grapes, cracked wooden cradles, red blots on the snow—the images flowed in quick succession, then hovered over the gleaming candles on the tables, the beer dispenser, the tip counting bartender . . .

I had always enjoyed reading in the red room of the KGB bar, awash in Soviet memorabilia . . . Despite the theme, the atmosphere felt decadent, a hangout for aristocrats.

The Kurdish woman’s voice was making me lightheaded. She talked of ugly and repulsive things in such a gentle, almost hypnotic manner. Feeling dizzy, I had to lean back against the bar.

Not only can you visualize the space, but the atmosphere and the characters’ emotions also become palpable. Similarly, when the characters mention the unsteady political climate after an election, the tension in the air lingers long after the words are uttered on the page. Ledia Xhoga does not describe places; she describes the feelings, moods, and states of being that a certain location provokes.

Alfred floats in and out of the interpreter’s life, anchoring the plot as he acts as a catalyst in her life and relationships. He claims to feel a deep connection to her, which leads to her accepting to interpret for him in his therapy sessions. She is prohibited from interpreting after the first session; as the therapist points out, there are so many converging points in their stories that it would be damaging for them to continue the arrangement. Alfred expresses sadness about leaving his mother behind, which mirrors the interpreter’s regret, while his relationship with his wife and feelings about her pregnancy make the protagonist question her own. Through Xhoga’s narration, their realities bleed into one another as she mistakenly translates her experiences instead of his during the therapy session. Alfred’s words are interspersed with her thoughts, and her own words appear on the page, as she is translating them to English.

“When Vilma told me she was pregnant, things changed. I felt a weight on my chest. I had nightmares. I’d see wild, disfigured hybrid animals. I kept thinking about my childhood. I wanted to hug my mother. I hoped she’d come here, even though she never leaves the house.”

“I have started to go out,” my mother once told me over the phone. “I go out with Neta. We go shopping together. We even took the bus once to that new mall.”

It becomes difficult for the reader to tell which realities belong to whom. The protagonist is left nameless by the author, to allow for easier assimilation. Alfred’s presence becomes stronger with every interaction, soon inspiring a shift in the protagonist, a desire to break off with comfort. She observes this change in her relationships: Cracks in her marriage finally break open, and acquaintances quickly turn into friends.

 Xhoga’s narrative voice also slips into unreliability; did she really see something or is her perception deluding her? Did she say that or did someone else?

“Did you feel the same way?” I said in Albanian.

Because I was interested in the answer, I worried for a moment that the question wasn’t Zinovia’s but my own. It was absurd. Of course, she must have asked it first. I should have left it alone, but the doubt kept gnawing at me. Zinovia would have interrupted. She would have told me it wasn’t my place to ask questions. She appeared unflustered.

In this scene the interpreter asks Alfred a question, without being certain that it is coming from the therapist. The narrator floats in and out of consciousness, making it difficult to discern if what is being described is actually happening. She lives a double life, oscillating between a state of deep intimacy and complete isolation. In a culmination of incredulity, the protagonist sees an old friend in the park and starts dancing with her and dozens of oddly dressed strangers, while an elderly gentleman plays a piano that appears seemingly out of nowhere— “How had he brought the piano into the park?” The narrative takes on these extreme positions to demonstrate to the reader how easily one can incorrectly interpret a situation.

Novels centering translators have constituted a sub-genre in literary fiction in the past few years. This comes as no surprise; literary translators have been getting increasingly recognized for the important work they do (now their names are more often featured on book covers, a privilege that was uncommon even a few years ago). These books form a sub-genre not only because they are written by translators, but because they underline translation as an essential component in the construction of character and plot. In The Extinction of Irena Rey, Jennifer Croft does so explicitly by narrating translators and their upcoming assignment; Bruna Dantas Lobato’s Blue Light Hours does so in a subtler way, following a life “in translation.” Xhoga joins this sub-genre by discussing not translation, but interpretation. If translation is a collaboration, usually of a literary nature, an interpretation is full embodiment of the other that is being interpreted. The interpreter does not simply translate Alfred’s words; she allows him to speak through her, and sometimes speaks for him in turn. However, Xhoga’s interpreter learns to let go of others’ views of who she is; to not be absorbed into the selves of others, but instead to construct her own self.

Misinterpretation is an exceptionally rich novel. Apart from the protagonist’s exciting journey and the thought-provoking ideas about translation, selfhood, and perception, the author offers a thoughtful portrayal of immigrants, especially those of Albanian descent, who seldom get a say in their own stories. In this novel, people often only see each other through the margins. In order to find herself, the protagonist embraces her past and learns to let go of circumstances that lie outside of her control. Xhoga is a careful writer, who knows when to hold the reader’s hand: As the narrator contemplates relinquishing Alfred, she sees another character who has been there at every important moment between Alfred and her, marking the beginning, climax, and now end of their relationship. It must be time to let go.

Arla Hoxha is a College of Letters student at Wesleyan University. She is interested in literary translation, and the intersection of precariousness and the everyday in fiction.