The False Apocalypse Read online

  Mimi and Vera run away:

  Their disillusionment was swift. Mimi told some of his relatives, who came to withdraw their money, that he was setting off for Holland because a problem had cropped up and the cheque was being held at a bank there.

  Shortly afterwards Vera was discovered to have left with him. Some people still hoped for his return with their money and even said that Mimi and Luli had joined the Sugar Boat, which was on his way to Albania.

  But the hopes of even the most optimistic crumbled when the first big pyramids fell. Mimi had been a swindler. Even the Sugar Boat had been a fraud. Mimi had used his reputation and the good name of his family to deceive them. Rumour had it that he had not even been a good husband. The woman who had thrown acid in his face now seemed to have had justice on her side. He had been recruited by the state security service long ago. His defenders said that he was a victim of his brother,. Luli was the real fraudster who had exploited his family’s reputation and the prestige of the West.

  ***

  Qorri read his notes so far. He had already imagined the novel’s denouement, in which creditors would attack Mimi’s house after he had escaped without trace. The creditors who had claimed to have deposited more than $200,000 with him would announce that the house belonged to them, and a deadly quarrel would break out among them, with some drawing guns and ready to kill rather than surrender the property.

  But what was happening around him went beyond anything in Qorri’s notes. Reality beggared the writer’s imagination. The more eventful life is, the less room there is for creativity, he thought. Perhaps Balzac was right; that a novel lived through is one less novel written. Where history begins, fiction stops short. In this novel, he had found in the ‘Sugar Boat’ a metaphor that organized the narrative and lent wings to his imagination, but the events that he was living through, so tangible and unpredictable, seemed to have demolished the edifice his imagination had constructed.

  Chapter II

  At Noel’s

  Qorri often spent the evening at Noel’s bar in the hope of finding a friend for a chat before he went home to Kindergarten Nr. 19. As usual, on that cold evening in January 1997, he tied his bicycle’s front wheel to the railings at the entrance to the bar and plunged into the semi-darkness of the staircase leading to the basement. But even as the noise of conversation and the odours of cooking emerged from the doorway, he could not rid himself of the worry that Noel’s had lost its usual easy and hospitable warmth over the last few days.

  Noel’s was one of the few bars without the aluminium, plate glass, and perspex with which the Albanians, in their frenetic desire to catch up with the times, filled their first post-communist, private cafes. The counter was constructed of the standard red bricks commonly used in communist buildings. The tables and chairs were wooden, with red baize tablecloths. On the walls were racks for utensils like in Ottoman houses, and on these were placed a couple of traditional musical instruments - a çifteli and a lahutë, some radios dating back to the war, an ancient Singer sewing machine, and other objects that recalled pre-communist Albania, as if in an attempt to bring it back. On one wall and on the bar’s round central pillar were black-and-white photos of world-famous actors, and a few from socialist-realist movies.

  Noel’s was both in the centre of the city and in a slightly secluded corner, and its semi-basement premises could be passed unnoticed, although the wooden door opened onto a well-known street of old Tirana, where some of the leading state institutions in Albania’s brief independent history were situated. Immediately opposite the entrance was the gate to the former Royal Palace, faced with white marble. For most of its history, this had been the Palace of Pioneers, because King Zog was forced to flee from the invading Italians shortly after it was built, and after the war the communists had turned it into an institution for the education of the children of Tirana. To the right of the palace and adjacent to its yard was the mansion of the feudal Toptani family, one of the few Ottoman-style houses remaining in the city. This house still contained the Institute for the Preservation of Public Monuments, as it had in communist times. Next came the Academy of Sciences, a royal residence in the time of the monarchy, and a little further on was the Parliament, a 1950s building in the Soviet neoclassical style. To the left of the Royal Palace was the National Art Gallery built by the dictator in the 1970s.

  Noel’s side of the street also had plenty of buildings that had made history. On the right was the National Theatre, built by the Italians during their occupation, where the Albanian language was first spoken on the stage in the capital. A little further down was the Interior Ministry, which retained not only its former function, but also its frightening aura invoked from the time when it had been one of the main links in the chain that bound the country in 50 years of communist dictatorship. To the left of Noel’s and less than 50 yards away, was a building that had just started to make history, the headquarters of the ruling anti-communist Democratic Party, the PD.

  ***

  The story was that the proprietors had been unsure what to call the bar. Their first idea had been ‘The Milky Way’, after the street’s nickname in communist days. This was not because of some imaginative association with the stars above, but because here the citizens of Tirana had stood in line before dawn to buy a bottle of milk or yoghurt from the dairy. However, this unpleasant memory was put aside and the name ’Noel’s’ was chosen. Most people thought that this was the name of the proprietors’ son, but his close friends knew that the name recalled the democratic movement of 1990, which had started at Christmas-time.

  The bar’s location, special atmosphere, cheap snacks, and good-quality spirits attracted the most diverse clientele in all Tirana, from leaders of the governing PD and police officers from the Interior Ministry, to members of the nascent opposition to the ruling party, which had emerged from divisions in the democratic movement. Actors from the National Theatre came after performances, as did artists working on exhibitions at the gallery, members of the Academy, and journalists. There was also the solitary figure of Robert Shvarc, the famous translator of German Jewish origin, who continually argued with those who sat down at his table if they said çifut for Jew, a word that, he insisted, should be buried along with communism and replaced by hebre.

  ***

  Qorri had reason to be worried as he descended the stairs to Noel’s. During the last two or three months there had been disturbances in Tirana following the bankruptcy of one of the large pyramid scams. On several occasions, crowds of people who had lost their money had waited for hours at the counters of the offices where they had made their deposits. When they received nothing, they had taken to the streets in fury to protest. But there they had encountered the rubber truncheons of the police, who had orders to disperse them immediately. The confrontations were becoming increasingly violent, and it was now a tangible fact that the entire machinery of the State, the police, the secret service, the State television, the prosecutor’s office, and the courts had all been put on an emergency footing to prevent these outbursts of rage. Suspicious groups of plain-clothes forces had also been seen in the city, and were said to be militants of the PD, mostly from the same region as President Berisha. These thugs dispersed the crowds with particular savagery. Demonstrations in the main squares had been forbidden and people trying to organise gatherings were pursued and arrested. Finally the government, in its efforts to prohibit assemblies, had decided even to cancel the football championship.

  It was true that most of these people acted spontaneously and without any political motivation, out of despair at the loss of their money. The opposition was fragmented into several parties, of which the largest was the former Communist Party. So far they had confined themselves to denouncing the State’s acts of violence, but the government was increasingly concerned at the prospect of the opposition giving a political direction to the citizens’ anger. So every State television news broadcast included interviews with people calling for the maximum punish
ments for anyone causing disturbances, and the courts were handing out prison sentences to anyone ‘endangering the country’s stability.’

  Qorri was an outspoken opponent of the government himself. After his release from his political imprisonment just before the first multi-party elections in March 1991, he had become secretary of the Albanian Helsinki Committee. In this role, he had been quick to criticize human rights violations by the new government, which was composed of communists who had turned into anti-communists led by Sali Berisha, a one-time party secretary. As a journalist Qorri had consistently urged opposition to Berisha’s authoritarianism. With things as they were, words had the power to spur people into action, and the most incisive articles were in the newspaper Koha Jonë, for which Qorri wrote.

  Recently, more high-level government people had been coming to Noel’s, amongst them even the police chiefs who had crushed the demonstrations. The courteous proprietors smiled at everybody and did their best to preserve the atmosphere of the early ‘90s, when the bar first opened. Even the police chiefs didn’t look as if they had just come from state business, but seemed to be there only for leisure, taking a break from a spot of lucrative trafficking. But recent events were bound to make their impact even here. Qorri’s table and the police officers’ tables were now islands that did not communicate except through the owner and his wife, who passed from one to another to serve them. At one time, Qorri would join a table if he saw one of his friends from prison, even if he now worked for the police. Hard times were not easily forgotten. But the distance between them had now increased, and when his fellow-prisoners now shared a table with other people, they preferred not to take notice of one another. Common enemies and dangers had brought them together in the communist prison, but their common hope of freedom had now evaporated and they were no longer looking at a common future. They were now in opposing camps, and their enemies were each other.

  ***

  Qorri entered and looked around the crowded bar with its thick fug of tobacco smoke. In one corner there were police officers, and beyond them some young actors from the theatre. Shvarc was at a small table against the central pillar of the bar along with Dita, a fair-haired young actress who admired the famous translator.

  At the bar’s most privileged table in a distant corner, was Dashamir Shehi, the Deputy Prime Minister and a leader of the Democratic Party, who had a serious taste for brandy.

  Qorri found a group of friends at the table closest to the door. There was the painter Edi Rama, who was visiting for a few days from Paris, where he had a scholarship, accompanied by his wife Delina, whose resonant voice radiated energy; the painter Lad Myrtezaj; the actor Artan Imami with his wife; and the beautiful singer Rovena Dilo. They had all been part of the anti-communist movement at the start of the ’90s but had now broken with the governing party. Besides Rovena, they had all signed a petition composed of intellectuals who were against the rigging of elections that had taken place the previous year, after which the opposition deputies who joined street protests were beaten up in Skanderbeg Square.

  Qorri took off his three-quarter-length coat, his scarf, and the beret that he wore tilted on the back of his head. The buzz of the conversation was about a skirmish between the police and demonstrators near the premises of a pyramid scheme named Sudja, after the woman who ran it. This Roma woman, whom nobody could have imagined as a creator of financial pyramids, had become famous. Her creditors, waiting in vain for their money, had demanded that Sudja should come out and explain. She finally appeared at a window and announced, ‘I will give you an answer when I have consulted with the person in charge. But you will have to wait because I am going on holiday tomorrow!’ The news that Sudja was leaving ‘on holiday’ fell like a bombshell on the waiting people. This was an end to any hope of them receiving their money. They took to the main streets in fury, shouting anti-government slogans. They wanted to know who was the ‘the person in charge’. In the cafe, the word was that this person was probably Prime Minister Meksi himself.

  Rama was often carried away when he started talking, and loudly ridiculed Sudja’s holidays. Some people from nearby tables, including one of the policemen, turned their heads. At Rama’s table they lowered their voices.

  ‘Good that you’ve come,’ Rama said to Qorri. ‘I met those people from the Alliance today. They all said that it’s time to act, and the opposition has to lead the protests. After Sudja’s, all the pyramids will fall one by one.’

  The Democratic Alliance was a party formed by disillusioned intellectuals who had been the first to leave the PD. Everybody around the table supported the Alliance. Rama said that the Alliance leaders had told him they were ready to co-operate with the former communists to create a front against Berisha before it was too late. But they wanted Qorri, a well-known former political prisoner, to joint this front. They had also talked to Kurt Kola, the chairman of the Association of Victims of Political Persecution, who was willing for this association to take the initiative to create this new front.

  ‘I’m not the right person for this job,’ Qorri told them.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t think I have the talent for leadership. I’ve supported the Alliance in my articles, and I’ve just drafted a declaration and a protest on their behalf.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Demolishing Berisha’s claims that he knew nothing about the pyramid schemes. That’s what they’re saying now: they knew nothing. How can’t they have known? Berisha has done all he can to find out about us, and yet he never looked into the pyramids! I’ve put down the facts, the advertising for the pyramid schemes on State television, the threats from their bosses before the elections that if any other party came to power, people wouldn’t receive their interest payments, and the election campaign with the cars and flags with the symbols of Gjallica and VEFA. So my conclusion is that these people are incapable of solving the crisis, and they can’t deceive us by arresting a couple of crooks. All the Albanian political parties have to sit down at the table.’

  ‘And what about the protest letter?’ Delina asked.

  ‘We’ve sent it to Voice of America, and a copy to the U.S. Embassy too. Their correspondents in Tirana are bastards. It’s a scandal, how they report. They’re totally in the service of Berisha. When the crowds are being forcibly dispersed, they even openly drive about in police and secret-service cars.’

  ‘OK, but what did the embassy say? Do they know yet that they shouldn’t support this government?’

  ‘Forget it,’ Artan Imami interrupted, trying to keep down his heavy, resonant voice. Rama used to tease him about this, often saying, ‘You’re all mouth.’

  ‘Why?’ his wife asked him.

  ‘Because the ambassador is of Italian origin. She’s a good friend of Foresti, the Italian ambassador, one of the closest people to Berisha.’

  But Edi Rama reverted to his conversation about the Alliance. “I wrote an article too in Paris,” he said to Qorri, “but as soon as I came back here it seemed so out of date. Events were snowballing. Articles and statements aren’t useful any more. You have to take action.”

  ‘Leave me alone, I’ve started writing a novel about the pyramids,’ Qorri replied. ‘It’s called ‘The Sugar Boat’.’

  ‘Never mind the Sugar Boat. A boatload of people is drowning right here.’

  At this point, Deputy Prime Minister Shehi stood up with two characters from his table, came up to them, and stopped. He was drunk, and spoke with the characteristic ambiguity of drunken men in whom affection and aggression are hard to tell apart. ‘The government is paralytic,’ Edi whispered to Murtezaj, who was sitting next to him. Shehi sensed they were talking about him and wanted to stay, but the owner of the bar escorted him to the door.

  ‘I’m a Tirana boy, born and bred,’ Shehi shouted as he left, his voice thick with drink. What did he mean by this? Was he setting himself apart from his boss, President Berisha, derided by his opponents for his origins in the mountain fast
nesses of the North? Or did he want to show that he belonged more to Tirana than anybody else in the bar, and so didn’t give a shit about them?

  Qorri didn’t stay long, but before he left, he went to Shvarc’s table to say hello. He had known the translator since childhood. He had a fixed image of him, sitting alone for hours on end in the Café Tirana, alone with a book or a notepad and a cup of coffee in front of him. Even long ago he had intrigued Qorri. He wore a trilby hat like the communist leaders, but on him it looked different. He was not an Albanian, but a Jew born in Sarajevo who had come to Albania with his parents when he was very small.

  Shvarc was rarely enthusiastic about anything, but it was hard to tell if this was his nature, because he had never felt totally at home in Albania, or if it was because of the way life had treated him. It was hard to work out if he was without friends or simply kept himself to himself. Was he lonely or solitary? He sparked into life only when he talked about the translations he was working on.

  But Shvarc was not indifferent to the drama of the pyramid schemes. With that irony of his, that only those who knew him could distinguish from earnestness, he was telling Dita the story of an Albanian who had deceived a Jew, keeping him in his cellar and taking money from him for several months after the war was over.

  ‘But we’re the only country that protected the Jews,’ said Qorri, using the word çifut, just to tease him.

  ‘The word is hebre!’ said Shvarc staring at him angrily.

  Qorri knew that he could continue this conversation with Shvarc all night, so he stood up and said goodbye to everyone at his table. The others were staying a little longer, because Artan Imami, the only one with a car, was going to take them to the house of Edi and Delina, where Myrtezaj lived.

  It was very cold outside. Qorri hurriedly untied his bicycle from the railing outside Noel’s and set off, holding the handlebars with one hand and clutching his overcoat tightly to his chest with the other. As he negotiated the potholes on the streets of Tirana, he thought of the proposition put to him by the people in the Alliance. He was wary of entering politics, yet he was not sure why; whether it was because of its dangers or because he did not have the passion that would make him heedless of these dangers. He decided that the second reason was the more valid.