When I was a child in communist Albania, happiness was called Aniushka. Aniushka was a large Czechoslovak doll that belonged to my neighbours. They were party members who had been allowed to travel to Prague at one point, and brought Aniushka back to decorate their bedroom. She was not on sale in any Albanian shop.
She had thick, black hair done up in a chignon, and wore an imperial-looking, orange satin dress adorned with lace. Her lips were bright red, and she had deep blue eyes, and long, dark eyelashes that gave her a dreamy expression. She sat majestically on the bed with the sides of her dress unfolded over the mattress, giving the plain, communist furniture a solemn, Habsburg air. I would stare for hours, longing to touch her. Sometimes, I sat on a chair by the bedroom doorstep – which was as close to her as I was allowed to get – and we talked about whether she might like, one day, to become a toy rather than an ornament.
