The Fall of the Stone City Page 7

  Meanwhile, taking advantage of the turbulent times, the Romany guard at the Hygiene Institute known as “Dan the TB Man” produced a song in memory of his girlfriend, who had been run over that April by the night-soil cart.

  I’m the gypsy of the institute

  In an awful plight

  Since the girl I loved

  Fell under a load of shite.

  The cultural officials chuckled but soon wiped the smiles from their faces. At their next meeting, which turned out to be fatal for them all, they agreed that private feelings involved not only disease and filth, but also nobler sentiments. Unaware of how dearly he would pay for this later, the head of culture recalled an old women’s song.

  Sing, nightingale, sing tonight

  In our garden of delight.

  In your wings of song enfold us,

  If we slumber wake us,

  From all intrusion guard us

  From all detection hide us.

  The exclamations of how lovely, how delicate, what sensitivity, prompted the head of culture, as if with the devil at his elbow, to recollect another song describing the same women, this time from the men’s point of view.

  Happy lads who woo them, happy lads who love them

  Happy lads who count them theirs . . .

  Retribution came swiftly at an emergency meeting of the Party Committee before the week was out. The meeting denounced decadent trends in the city, nostalgia for the overthrown feudal-bourgeois order and the cult of declassed ladies, whose degraded songs were cunningly described simply as “women’s songs” instead of “songs of the elite”, as our literary critics have classified them.

  Angry voices were raised. “Who’s at the bottom of this?” The head of culture fainted twice. Towards midnight the Party chairman made a start on his closing speech with a quotation from Lenin. “Your most dangerous enemy is the one you forget.” He spared no one, not even himself. “Our enemies have caught us napping. Decadence, thrown out the front door, has returned through the back window.” Before properly settling accounts with the notions of Nietzsche, perpetual motion and other perversities, the city was confronted with this virulent plague: its ladies. It was no coincidence that this was happening at a time of renewed tension with Greece and that the US Sixth Fleet had been patrolling the Mediterranean for days. “We will punish the culprits without mercy. Brace yourself for the worst.”

  Shortly after the meeting ended, towards two in the morning, the head of culture shot himself.

  THE CITY CONFRONTS ITS LADIES

  The bullet that claimed the life of the head of culture was also in a way the first shot in a war between the city’s new authorities and its ladies. For those in the know it was obvious that the head of culture had died a victim of his own nostalgia for the ladies but, for reasons that remained unknown, this detail was quickly concealed and he was portrayed as their opponent, indeed a sort of first martyr in this new battle.

  The meetings to denounce the ladies, unlike the usual ones, were conducted not only without cheering or music but with a sombre, even academic tinge that seemed appropriate to their subject. This was especially true of the opening presentation entrusted to the elderly antiquarian Xixo Gavo, which, despite its imposing title “A Thousand Years of Ladies”, was merely a recitation of an interminable list of the city’s ladies from 1361 until the previous week. Nobody in the audience understood what it was for but this did not prevent them from applauding the old historian when the list, and with it his speech, came to an end.

  The other contributions more or less compensated for the shortcomings of the opening speech. One of them, “Ladies Under Communism”, not only surveyed, as the title suggested, the fate of ladies everywhere in the communist camp, from Budapest to the former St Petersburg, Bratislava and even Shanghai, but explained why the ladies of Gjirokastër occupied a special position in this vast field.

  This was also the most obscure part of the talk, which each listener interpreted in his or her own way. According to the speaker, being a lady in this city, or occupying “lady status” did not depend so much on the title and property of a husband. Rather, it was something to do with large houses. It was no coincidence that a foreign architect had called these houses “ladies in stone”. According to him, inside these great houses no doubt constructed by deranged craftsmen, under their gingerbread ceilings and behind the pitiless glare of their windowpanes, there took place a mysterious and sophisticated process, like a retreat into a moonlit distance, which was the first symptom of the formation of a lady. These ladies were imagined as impossibly pale, their breasts and waists dazzlingly white, with a dark enigma hidden under silk that made the senses reel.

  A sigh of relief followed the conclusion of the talk.

  The next paper was easier to comprehend because it dealt with the events that had led to the death of the poor cultural official and also took a clear political position. From the very start the speaker did not hide his hostility to the ladies. He considered their songs, which many people recalled with tenderness, to be indubitably decadent. As for their coffee ritual, evoked in the words, “The coffee service arrives/Like a decree from the sultan”, this might be thought to describe a custom of aristocratic dignity, and even inspire admiration. But it struck this expert, who had been nurtured at the bosom of the people, merely as evidence that the ladies of the city were not just discriminating aristocrats, but women of power. Intoxicated by his own eloquence, the speaker lifted his head high to announce that these women had tyrannised the city for years.

  An intervention by the chairman asking for this contribution to be cut short only spurred on the speaker. He did not stop but screeched that these ladies not only wielded power but were the city’s hidden face, its soul, its exact reflection. This, he claimed, was the explanation of the insane fantasies that flourished in this city, fictions about dinners for the dead and the like.

  LADIES IN MOURNING

  There was no doubt that the ladies were being targeted and it was obvious too how entirely irrational this was.

  Paralysis gripped the city. Some of the punishments ordered by the capital city, astonishingly, were interpreted as acts of revenge on behalf of the ladies themselves. The speaker who had so taken them to task was a case in point. “I would arrest the dog,” said the Party chairman, “but those hags would be over the moon with delight. ‘Look,’ they would say, ‘he insulted us, and see how he suffered!’”

  There were more meetings on the subject. Meanwhile most people privately thought that this campaign should never have been started. Gentlemen were easy to deal with. You summoned them to court, found them guilty and chained them up. But you couldn’t do anything to ladies. They rarely left their houses, only once, at most twice in as many months. They were as elusive as mirages.

  When summer came to an end the Party chairman did not commit suicide as had been long expected but was dismissed, and this seemed an admission that the cause was lost.

  But this conclusion was premature. The very moment of the ladies’ apparent triumph proved the truth of the expression, “win a battle, but lose the war”.

  It was just after midday on 17 December when Madam Ganimet of the House of the Hankonats, dressed in her winter fur coat, tottered in her high heels across the intersection of Varosh Street and the road to the lycée, when a woman greeted her from her right-hand side. “Good morning, Comrade Ganimet!”

  The lady so addressed stopped in her tracks, as if struck by a blow. There for a moment she remained, in the middle of the crossroads and then slowly, as if trying to identify her assailant, attempted to turn her head. But her neck would not obey her.

  “It’s me, Comrade Ganimet. I’m Rosie, from the neighbourhood Committee. Are you coming along to the meeting tomorrow?”

  Rosie’s quarry remained rooted to the spot. Then she raised her hand as if in search of support and lifted it to her chest. Her knees trembled and she collapsed on the cobblestones.

  Some passers-by contact
ed the hospital, which sent its only ambulance at once.

  This was merely the start. Now that a hitherto unsuspected method of bringing down the indomitable ladies had been found, it was open season everywhere. Like seagulls at the end of their life span the ladies of the city fell one after another, wherever they were caught by the fatal cry of “Comrade!” The same scene was repeated: first they froze on the spot and reached out a despairing arm as if for support from some kind gentleman. Sir, your arm, please. Then there was an attempt to see where the blow had come from, a catch of the breath, a trembling at the knees, followed by collapse.

  Mrs Nermin Fico and Mrs Sabeko of the House of Zekat both fell on the same day, the first as she was setting out from home and the second when returning from a social call. That same week it was the turn of Mrs Turtulli as she crossed Chain Square. A lady of the Kokalari House, emerging out of doors for the first time in two years, on hearing the cry of “Comrade!” tried to flee, but her knees gave way and she crumpled on the spot. Mrs Mukades Janina, rumoured at one time to have been the king’s secret fiancée, slumped halfway across the Old Bridge, while her assailant, suddenly taking fright, ran away. A lady of the Çoçoli House managed to protest, “I’m not a comrade!” before she fainted, but others fell without a word. The two Maries, Marie Laboviti and Marie Kroi, could only manage an astonished cry of “Oaaah!”, covering their mouths with their hands as they did when teased by street urchins; but this time they did not laugh.

  And so it continued, on Castle Street, by the Powder Magazine, in front of Xuano’s shop, by the State Bank and at Çerçiz Topulli Square, where in 1908 our hero Çerçiz shot the Turkish major, after challenging him, “Hey Turkish scum, here comes death from Çerçiz!” All over the town the ladies fell one by one.

  Everyone noticed how few of them there were now.

  Strangely, now that they were so much less visible, people thought about them more often, recalling places “where the incident happened”, and other details, such as the case of Mrs Meriban Hashorva, carried home on an army stretcher, or Mrs Shtino, who after a gypsy girl shouted “Comrade!” expressed her dying wishes on the way to the hospital. At these “sites of incidents” a stonemason whose name was never mentioned was said to be putting up plaques with the names of the ladies and the day and exact time of their fall.

  It was now universally understood that after all that had happened, the ladies had shut themselves up indoors, never to emerge again. Among them were Mrs Pekmezi and Mrs Karllashi, two ladies of the House of Shamet who used an old family alphabet for their correspondence, and also a lady of the Çabejs, another of the Fico family and finally an elderly Kadare lady with her sister, Nesibe Karagjozi.

  Clearly the ladies were beaten.

  DAY 2,000

  The setting of their star brought no joy. Secretly, people felt remorse at this disruption of the natural order. There was a feeling that the ladies would be gone for a long time. It would take decades, if not centuries, for the great Houses to produce new ladies, for only these cultivated families possessed the expertise. Without them it was predicted that the city would turn savage, but nobody knew in what way. The code of the ladies’ secrets had never been broken. Now their culture had been extinguished and it was impossible to say what might grow in the ashes they left behind.

  Superficially the city remained the same. But to the much-abused surrounding villages and small towns, it seemed that the hour to settle scores had struck. Yet they did not dare. The city stood firm. With its ladies it had possibly held its head higher, but without them it seemed the more dangerous.

  It now became clear that the city was unsuited not just to the new era but to any era. The news that it would be declared a “museum city” was welcomed as an honour by some, but the majority took it as a mark of shame. A third group tried to encourage hopes of the city’s regeneration. Words beginning with ‘re-’ appeared again, in feverish campaigns.

  “Lunatics’ Lane” was at the top of the list for renaming. Some people thought this must mean demolishing the street, but this would not be easy. The principal obstacle was the house of the Leader of the new Albania, or rather its ruins, very close by. Families such as the Skëndulajs or the Shamets sometimes favoured and sometimes discouraged the demolition, while the Kadares’ house, which was also nearby but at the opposite end of the street, only suggested sinister ideas. It was in fact the other Kadare house in the Hazmurat neighbourhood whose bad reputation had clung to it ever since its owner, to the family’s shame, had gambled it away, but many people thought that it was this Kadare house in Palorto that would stain the city’s name for ever and ever. Nobody knew the reasons for this prophecy, but precisely because they were unknown, the curse seemed the more credible. People said a fire or a heavy British bomber might be able to dispel its evil aura.

  LATER. DAY 3,000

  However far-fetched they might seem, all these rumours about “Lunatics’ Lane”, whether its renaming or its demolition or the demolition of the entire city, were no more than a pale reflection of the conspiracies, cabals and other horrors that were hatched that winter among the highest echelons of power. The Leader’s drawn expression betrayed his fear of being overthrown but still he emerged the winner.

  The decision to reconstruct his house to three times its original size was only one of the hopeful signs. The entire city’s spirits lifted. It had deluded itself with its fears of reprisals and humiliation. The order of the day was now not to humiliate the city, but to praise it to the skies.

  A piece of good news arrived to increase the general joy. Rumours were generally ominous but this was something genuinely different. The city expected some rare treat; of what kind, nobody knew, not even the municipal leaders. But still the news spread. Probably there would be a big celebration with an important guest from the highest possible level. The city was no backwater to be awed by a visit. Besides the Leader, whose birthplace it was, the city had received King Zog and the princesses, his sisters, as well as Benito Mussolini of Italy and Victor Emmanuel, who was not only King of Italy and Albania but also Emperor of Ethiopia.

  There had also been non-visits that did not take place such as, at the beginning of the century, that of the Ottoman sultan with his mother, the valide sultan, whose marshal of the levée was also a native of the city. The most recent unrealised visit was that of Adolf Hitler, who was supposed to have come to inspect a plane that the city claimed to have invented, which worked on the principle of perpetual motion. But the outbreak of war had prevented this.

  None of these visits or non-visits could compare with the one that was now expected. Stalin was coming.

  This great news ushered in the new year of 1953. The cold was no less biting but the icicles hanging from the eaves of the houses glistened as if for Easter.

  DAY 3,033

  Everybody was caught up in the intoxication caused by this news. From morning to night the cafés speculated on the reason why Stalin had chosen Gjirokastër of all places. Most people thought that it did not take great minds to work this out: the city was the Leader’s birthplace and it was well known that among all the leaders of the Communist Bloc outside of Russia, Stalin did not and could not have a more faithful devotee than the leader of Albania. Some suggested other reasons but only quietly and tentatively, mentioning for instance the ladies and how they had fallen. Among the thousands of cities in the Eastern Bloc, only ours had done away with its ladies.

  For whatever reason, Gjirokastër would become for a few days the centre of the world. In fact, a secretly harboured desire of the city to become the centre of the planet just once was probably now coming out in the open.

  As happens whenever people go too far, in the midst of the rejoicing it turned out that the city had been, as they say, riding for a fall. As January ended and February began, a dark thunderbolt struck: Stalin would not be coming.

  After the first shock, when, having dreamed of being the summit of the world the city fell into a bottomless pit,
a hail of questions fell. Why? Stalin must be angry, of course. This was the first guess, because anger caused most kinds of furore. He was no doubt angry at Gjirokastër, perhaps at Albania, if not the whole of Europe.

  In 1908, when the sultan had cancelled his visit, it took several years to discover the reason, which turned out to be something that had not crossed anybody’s mind: the alphabet. The sultan’s court had protested that after the Ottoman Empire’s centuries-old love affair with Albania, the latter had treacherously rejected the Arabic script in favour of the Latin alphabet!

  Of course Stalin was greater and more daunting than the sultan, and his explosion of fury would also be greater and more devastating.

  DAY 3,042

  Nobody could remember a more bitterly cold February. In its first week, instead of brighter news or at least no news at all, a shock came when the two doctors, Big and Little Gurameto, were arrested once again. For the first time they were not weighed in the balance against each other. Both men were seized at midnight, clapped in steel handcuffs and taken to the same prison.

  TIME TURNS BACK. DAY 3,029

  Nobody knew who was the first to notice it, still less mention it. Time was not just suspended, as it had been for the anaesthetised hospital patients nine years before; it was going backwards at great speed.

  All sorts of reasons were suggested. One was that Stalin was not ageing but growing younger, by some secret technique. Consequently time was flowing backwards, to match. Soon we would reach not 1954 but 1952, and so on: 1949, 1939, 1937. . .

  There was no news of the doctors.

  PART THREE

  1953

  CHAPTER NINE

  Nobody had ever seen the Cave of Sanisha but everyone talked about it. The cave was universally imagined as the deepest and most terrifying dungeon of the city’s prison, which was housed in the ancient castle that dominated Gjirokastër. It had been closed up since the time of Ali Pasha Tepelene, whose sister Sanisha gave it its name. This young woman had been kidnapped and raped and her assailants had been tortured in this cell for days and nights on end, while Ali Pasha himself watched through a secret spyhole.