| E enjte, 30.05.2013, 07:26 PM |
Communist
Prosecutor
By Visar Zhiti
Extract from the book “Trails of Hell”
The
prosecutor seemed notoriously oppressive and thick-skinned. In his heavy coat
and bushy animal skin collar, he looked like a wild beast. Well, I guess spring
hasn’t arrived yet. At first I thought
they had brought policeman Marku to confront me in case I had broken a rule in
the prison cell. I feel bad I was dubious about Marku, but…
-
This
is the district prosecutor, comrade Avdi Gashi, - said the interrogator.
-
Explain
yourself clearly, or I’ll rip off your pants! - brayed the prosecutor. I did
not understand what was wrong with him.
- They even requested you to be a writer in Tirana, - he let out a loud bray
like a burp. His cheeks and trachea must have hurt from it. - But we turned
them down. And we were right. How could we let an enemy go there? Is he going
to explain himself, or should we charge him with an additional crime, - he
turned his head toward the interrogator, - let’s add…?
-
He
will talk. He has no way out, - the interrogator assured him.
What further
accusation is the prosecutor so easily charging me with, as if he is simply adding
another ladle of soup in my bowl?
-
What
did you want with “rakatakia,”[1]
who you got involved with? - The prosecutor asked with contempt. - Eh?
Even the interrogator got confused. He asked him in a
whisper:
-
What
do you mean by that, comrade Prosecutor?
-
I
don’t know! He knows who “rakatakia” is… the Japanese one.
(Do they
want to accuse me of being a Japanese spy?)
-
Aha,
you are right, - the interrogator chuckled. - What is the name of the Japanese
poet you translated; since you couldn’t stay out of it? – Irritated, he turned
towards me, - Eh, “Taketukia”?[2]
Ah! What did you want do with him?
When I
was a student, I couldn’t stand reading passages of Enver Hoxha’s speeches in Russian,
which sounded mediocre, gorarçe translated,[3]
and boring, so I found a Japanese poet to read outside of class, Isikava
Takuboku. (Did I need to report this to my killers as well?) My friend from Korça,
Skënder Rusi, and I decided not to waste our time terribly in vain and chose to
translate a poet who would be permitted for exams. We picked a far, far-off
Japanese poet who had a lesser known biography. Frankly, he was all we could
find. H. Leka from Shkodra lent us the book from his personal library. He was
our professor and our friend. We translated the whole book from Russian. But in
his notebook Skënder interpreted the tanks more imaginatively and I, perhaps, a
little more ironically.
-
Talk
to us! Why don’t you speak? Vermin! Who gave you rakatakia and taketukia, and why? - I perceived senseless mumbling sounds.
-
What
were your relations with critic Xhezair Abazi? - The interrogator asked me abruptly.
-
Same
as with the others, - I said.
-
Is
he talking about Xhambazi?[4]
- Howled the prosecutor.
Then they
were chatting over something, but the prosecutor could not lower his voice; he
would find it easier to unload a heavy bundle of oak twigs from his back than
bring down his voice. What? Sparks? What are they informing each other about?
What is this Golden Pen…?
-
But
they also asked you to be a writer, you renegade! - Despite his old age, the
prosecutor charged toward me, but the interrogator held him back.
-
Wait,
don’t you worry about it, I will fix him.
Translated
from The Albanian by Hilda Xhepa