by
Visar Zhiti
(Excerpt
from the book “Trails of Hell,” pg. 60)
A long
time ago, in the former life when I lived above ground, I took my book with
stories - like a different kind of tales, for those who grow, for an ageless
reader, to the publishing house, more or less something like that.
Young
Shehu, as they called Bashkim*, since the weirdo Lasgush* once had called him
so - ah Lasgush’s verse, “I speak to you with
fire…with fire…in my bosom I have dug a grave …” as well as in mine too, asked
to become the editor of my story tales.
In
fact, it was me who asked him to, and he responded “fine.” I was delighted, meanwhile,
I thought: the son of the Prime Minister, Enver Hoxha’s closest collaborator, no
one would dare to contest him. But no, it was not so. When the editor-in-chief of that section took Bashkim aside and explained something in confidence, I
sighed, “ah.”
“I’m
sorry” Bashkim said, “They don’t want to. They are saying something like following
the Fourth Plenum, the outside editors are not accepted. Would you like to give
me the manuscript as a gift? With your autograph.” He confused me. It was my
first and only autograph.
While
I was having coffee in the club near the publishing house with the tall and
slender editor-in-chief, wearing a red turtle neck, with his teeth sticking out
strikingly, he spoke only about Bashkim, how he had got to know him at the
Elbasan Metallurgical Plant when the editor-in-chief was doing the communist
Party internship in order to become a full party member…
“Bashkim...?
No. Me…” -and the editor-in-chief turned red, finally remembering to give an
explanation for the book I had submitted.
“It
can’t be published, consider it a beautiful prelude… It is equivocal. It is not
for children or adults; it’s in-between…it’s arduous. No…publish the poems
first… Look! Here comes Bashkim...”
When
we parted, Bashkim felt embarrassed.
“We had
really gotten to know each other in Elbasan,” he said. “I was at the
Metallurgical Plant doing the productive labor, that’s what they call it, the
year after high school.”
“Who
was he?” I asked.
“You
didn’t know him? Fatos Kongoli*.”
* Bashkim Shehu was the son of the communist
Prime Minister Mehmet Shehu.
* Lasgush Poradeci was an Albanian poet and
writer.
*Fatos Kongoli has become one of the most
convincing representatives of contemporary Albanian prose.
Translated
from the Albanian by Hilda Xhepa
