Part Two
Memorie.al / “A King in Albania” is the title of the novel published by Jean-Luc Tourenne, brought into Albanian by “Uegen” Publishing House with the translation by Dashnor Kokonozi. The author is a Parisian psychoanalyst. His nature as an unusual traveller drove him to visit Albania in 1985 as well. There, he learned about our history, and further conducted extensive research into our country. “This is a novel. Some names have been changed, others have not. The historical facts and most of the events truly took place; some are the fruit of imagination. And such a thing, I believe, is the privilege of historical novels,” he writes in the introduction to the book. The part we publish below is an excerpt from it…!
Continued from the previous issue
Excerpt from the book “A King in Albania” by Jean-Luc Tourenne
Even while bearing the colours of their uniform, Zogu stood arrogantly before the allies and declared that they had no right to meddle in the affairs of his country. Vienna gnashed its teeth. Without openly turning against the Mati tribe, it tried to disarm the highlanders.
To disarm an Albanian is like cutting off his arm. I did not know this yet. In that land where killing is an institution unto itself, custom dictates that a newborn boy, to have good luck in life, should have a loaded pistol placed under his pillow…!
The Austrian forces in Albania did not know this, but in time they would learn it to their own cost. Thus the imperial troops managed to gather only a very small portion of Zogu’s troops’ weapons. On 11 November 1916, old Franz Joseph had the brilliant idea of giving up the ghost, forcing his Albanian vassal to set off to pay him his last respects.
Received with full honours, Ahmet Zogu realised that he could not leave Austria as easily as he had entered. For days he tried to vanquish Goliath, pushing hard against the ministry doors and shouting that this whole affair was a diplomatic scandal.
When he realised that this world steeped in war was not particularly sensitive to the demands of a tribal chieftain from the mountains of Albania, he became more patient, polished his decorations, and set about calmly discovering the sweetness of Viennese life.
In the midst of that world slaughterhouse, in Vienna people continued to waltz. The women were beautiful, and the more their husbands were busy with gas asphyxiations, the more receptive they were to our presence.
“You mustn’t think I only frequent these kinds of places,” said Ahmet, casting his eyes around the empty hall. “I am also invited to the imperial hall where those magnificent balls are held, the secret of which you Austrians alone possess. The Empire treats its allies with the highest honours.”
Despite his rank and the extraordinary history of his life, Ahmet bey Zogu was afraid I might take him for one of those columns holding up the tavern ceiling. I assured him that was not the case. As a future officer, I too wholeheartedly frequented those magnificent balls, where we had already become indispensable.
The ladies lacked dancers, and we were gentlemen, both in the literal and figurative sense. And we served not only as dancers. How many respectable ladies willingly let they go during those quick caresses behind the car on the way back from the Opera?
If during the months that followed, Ahmet passed from one love story to another, he never enjoyed the same flavour as I did for those couches in the back rooms of the establishments. Concerned about his image, he liked to be openly seen with the daughters of those families who turned their heads to look at him.
Constantinople had given this tribal chieftain the refined taste of elite education, which would later serve him much more than the Viennese waltzes…!
“So, what now?” I asked when he had finished his story.
“I wait…! Vienna is not so unpleasant.”
“A prudent decision. They will let you leave one day, if only to free your adjutant.”
“Poor Weber!” he said, laughing. “He’s had a hellish time. And yet he tries more to help me than to spy on me. He surely curses me every day.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Especially at this hour!”
“Things could be worse for him,” I said, shrugging.
“On the front, he’d have caught a bullet.”
A moment of silence fell. The memory of all those events had somewhat darkened the gaze of the young colonel – if such a thing were not caused by alcohol. He broke the silence by expressing to me his desire, above all, to see Albania as soon as possible. Every day, every week spent in Vienna took him further from his destiny.
He strongly believed that the imperial authorities were hindering him by every means, and that they would even deploy a battalion of elite troops if he attempted to flee. I was not cruel enough to tell him that the future of the north of his small country was not among the High Command’s priorities.
“It’s a matter of weeks,” I told him, trying to reassure him, but not thinking that he would spend another two years in Vienna. “Once you arrive in the country, you can take the reins of your tribe into your hands.”
“I have something more than that in mind.”
“More?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”
Ahmet bey Zogu was not joking when he said he would become king. This nineteen-year-old youth, a hostage in a foreign land, who knew no one in Vienna except an adjutant and a student at the military cavalry school, spoke with the greatest confidence that one day he would wear the crown of Albania upon his head.
But what if his strange story was nothing but a fabrication of fantasy, and he was, as I first thought, the son of some minister or banker born in Graz and educated in some religious school? If that were true, and if he had the chance to escape a madhouse, then it could be said that his path as a writer was truly open…!
Then Ahmet presented me with the principle of his project: nothing less than the unification of all Albanian provinces into a single nation. Only a monarchy could mobilise the necessary energy to unite all the tribes of the country; only a monarchy could justify an irresistible force that would even bring the most stubborn to heel.
The independence achieved in 1912 could lead the country towards a strong state, but it could also end in anarchy. His family name, known since the fifteenth century, and its role in the wars for independence, the respect and support he enjoyed from Ismail Qemali, his military and diplomatic preparation – all these made him an ideal king.
Of this he was firmly convinced. Alone, in front of an empty bottle at that table, without followers or army, without money and young enough, in my eyes; however, he was almost believable.
“I greatly need cadres, people like you, prepared for war, educated and capable of leading. In Albania, everything must be built from scratch.”
“Have you started recruiting people?” I asked, unmoved.
“There is a war to be fought in my country. And I cannot win it alone.”
I looked at him, not believing what he said. The whole world was in flames, and he was talking to me about his war, a highlanders’ war, a squabble of peasants. If it had been any other time, I would have laughed in the face of this fake colonel, recruiting his officials at the end of the night, in a cabaret.
But war creates timeless spaces where we like to believe the unbelievable. Still, I asked myself whether there was even the slightest chance that he would ever wear the crown he dreamed of.
The light of dawn began to show through the windows. Somewhere in a corner of the hall, the last waitress who had remained was dozing, her head resting on the table. She looked dead, in her solitude. Ahmet looked at her and smiled.
“What do you propose?” I asked, not without a hint of irony. “The post of Minister of the Interior?”
“What do I propose? For now, that you join my delegation here in Vienna. By the way, I am the only one left in it. But if I insist with the High Command, I believe they will not refuse me an assistant.”
“Ahmet, here you are a hostage.”
“A guest, please. It is a fine detail of the Viennese spirit, which changes everything about my status. Let’s put it that way…!”
“If my proposal doesn’t appeal to you, let’s leave it here and speak no more. Perhaps you have other projects for the coming years?”
No, I had no projects. If I had any, it would be to join the graveyard with thousands of others. The great slaughterhouse had already determined the fate of two generations.
Within a month, I would receive my officer’s epaulettes, my parade sword, and the order to set off for the front. An official one-way ticket to the grave. I made the decision without overthinking it, the way one signs a deal with the devil.
“I’m your man.”
Ahmet stood up with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. He put on his coat, his hat, and his gloves.
“With us, a handshake is as good as a deal.” It was done.
Passing by the sleeping girl, he left a few banknotes in her palm, enough to pay for ten bottles. I believed he was rich, but he was merely a king before his time.
We parted at the tavern’s exit, as day was breaking. I remember it had rained all night, and the cobblestones were wet. At those moments, it was hard to tell whether the kingdom for which I had just signed was anything more than a drunkard’s dream. The morning light made the strange oath of vassalage I had sworn to that stranger seem almost unbelievable.
The only sure thing was that I had less than an hour left to return to the barracks, fix my uniform, and present myself at the morning roll call. One week after that tavern night, my commander informed me that ‘for diplomatic reasons’ I had been assigned to join the Albanian delegation in Vienna. From then on, in a certain way, I was Albanian. / Memorie.al
