By Visar Zhiti
Memorie.al / Finally, the prison Estrada would give its new show in the canteen, which was immediately filled with prisoners. Although a good part of them refused to come. (It was not by force, like the reading of Enver Hoxha’s works.) They felt not only the mockery, an extremely vile cynicism that we inflicted on ourselves, of course by force, but also disgust, almost physical. How are those who ask us for humor, and those who accept to do it, not ashamed?!…
I heard them rehearsing, I don’t know where, in what warehouse, I caught some sound or a fragment of a song or a shout, but I couldn’t believe it. Pale, I had also been called, the person responsible for re-education, a prisoner like me, to participate. – “You have a high school education, you are an actor’s son and you wanted to study theater. You liked the stage. You break away from the hard work underground, when there are rehearsals”. – “No, I said. Impossible”.
It seemed to me as if they were opening an old wound, moving a knife, tearing at my breath. That dream, the most beautiful of life, in a strange way, wanted to be realized backwards now, in prison, in the counter-life. No, no! Humiliation… I didn’t want to judge what he was accepting. Apart from being forced, it could also be done out of boredom, or out of a residual desire. This is how they wear the crown of antlers, from a killed deer.
The head of the canteen would serve as a stage, so the wooden benches had been moved there and a couple of tables had been raised up, vertically, like a stage. The food counter on the wall was open, set design? The cook had come out halfway, he had a role or to watch the show, it was unclear. In every corner of the hall, service captains were standing. In the first row were sitting the senior military officers, the commander himself, the commissar, the operative, the guard officer and…!
There was applause, as if boards were being torn. So, the show began. The prisoner Dhimitër Furxhi appeared on that stage, he was known, a real professional actor. Was that why they had imprisoned him, they needed him for the stage? He, in a prison uniform, but washed, and with large, painted soldier’s boots, sad and excited in a different way… applause again… sincere… they loved that man… an excellent talent, now he was working with a shovel underground.
– “Dear fellow sufferers,” he said in a voice accustomed to the stage, but extremely foreign, like a snow of poisoned candy wrappers, – gentlemen of the Command! Ward 303 of the Spaç Re-education today gives for you…”! – The voice seemed to me as if it had just cried… once…!
The choir appeared on stage. 5-6 prisoners, terribly serious. Weak, they could not stand straight and resembled a crooked row of bushes. At their side, one with an accordion. Yes, yes, an accordion, for real. Thick fingers, one bandaged, wandered over the white and black keyboard, as if other severed fingers had been arranged. Guitar! Vaçe’s guitar?
Is that it? Did they take it out? Who is playing it? Partisan song. Their captives were singing it. March. Chorus. They criticized Vaçen because he sang Spanish songs better than these. The oldest in the choir had sung this song to the mountain, during the war, as a partisan. Now as a prisoner…! I could see their mouths. Missing teeth or teeth blackened, as if by the smoke of battle…!
Permission was granted, the prisoners could even laugh. The sleepers were also mocked: why did they come to prison, to sleep, huh? Is there a hotel here? The first row of spectators laughed. Those who take newspapers not to read them, but to have paper… and they want them to burn, when they make coffee or boil pasta. A poem and a half is enough for a cup of coffee.
The macaroni want a novel that continues for half a year, from one newspaper issue to another. And yes, prison is long. And why should we be bored? The first line laughed again. Those who performed were declared spies. And for 100 rolled cigarettes, is the social problematic page of the newspapers enough or not? That is the question. This sketch is left by Frederik Rreshpja, he wrote it. There is no news after his release. They have put it back in, they say…!
– “The black show”! – Who whispered. I didn’t turn my head… The circus master, Telat Agolli, appeared on stage. Big as a cyclops. He is “People’s Artist”, – I heard voices, and they have taken away his title. – “Whatever he does, why is he so much more confused than his bear, once in the circus”?
– “Look, look, he’s doing speed tricks. He’s a prestigious guy. When someone shows up, look, he’s got a handkerchief full of eggs, why doesn’t he confuse the police, take their guns and run away”?! – “He’s a People’s Artist, he’s not allowed to”.
Then he was called to the stage, famous for his tambourine drop, who had made a name for himself in Turkey, had taken first place in a Balkan competition and, wherever the State Folk Song and Dance Ensemble had gone, they were bragging about him, Xhevat Lishiiii.
The hall fell silent. Because the master, bowed, looked at the tambourine, deeply, without moving, as if he had a hole in his hands, a worry or a worry, with frayed, taut skin. The prisoners applauded again, to give courage to their artist, calm down… now look… you too… in the first row…!
Your crime here is a double crime. The man and his talent have been punished. Look at the miracle… The master of the tambourine glanced around the hall. He had received the congratulatory greeting. What was he waiting for, permission from the command? No, inspiration, he needed the situation… it’s not easy here… Bam-bam-bam! – The tambourine rang out and fell silent. It seemed to announce its presence, the thunder. Then a shiver, which passed from the skin of the tambourine, to our skins.
The thumb crossed that ellipse of sorrow and joy twice, like a tray coming from the Orient…! Then the artist, with the tips of his fingers, was pouring out knocks, trak-trak-trak, ladies’ steps, dance heels, they became louder, goats running on a plateau, horses’ hooves. Here, the overthrow of a wooden moon, the fear of wolves in the snow. The prisoners were clapping, keeping the rhythm with the defin. Then silence, the defin vibrated the bells of its stars.
Being on the side, I stood up to see better, leaning against the wall. The master had wandered madly under his pagan rites. I saw that the hall was also hypnotized. Amazing. I had never seen a state like this: eyes that were confused, softened further, laughing, frozen, large, eyes of rain, of earth, of death. A galaxy of captivity was breaking free from its curse. Mouths open, half-open, toothless, locked, wrinkles running from one forehead to the other, slanting like danger.
The face of an imprisoned people, stunned by the roar… of a drum. No, it was more. A game of chance. The drum was thrown up, fell on the genius’s head, they rang together, it was thrown again, his hands were cut off like a gift from God, the drum slid through his arms, passed under his feet, the master was knocked down with his feet, he lay down, the drum fell on him from above, meteorite, woman, happiness and disaster.
The drum – human drum. Stop listening. Pain, silence…! Knock-knock! Knock on the door. Loud. Open… we are the police…. the drum was blowing, protest, accusation, battle, thunder, wounds, clanging of handcuffs, explosions of gates.
The big one fell, the prison was opened. Here, crowds of prisoners were leaving, slowly, timidly. Machine gun fire and stormy applause, a storm over the trees, there were no trees, corpses…! Def after the shooting, the last beat of hearts…! How is this man being held in prison? Bravo! Well done! Voices and sighs were heard. An old man came out of the hall in tears.
After the shock, a general, hazy silence fell. As everyone left, I knew, the prisoners would hardly fall asleep, they would squirm a lot. Everyone would have the nerve to tell a love story, and there would be no trouble.
The genius of the def, Lishi, stood like a satisfied culprit. – “Wait for us upstairs, at the doors of the dungeons,” – the commissar said. “Why? What did he do, the def fell, with permission…”?! Memorie.al
