Part Twenty-One
Excerpts from the book: ‘ALIZOT EMIRI – The Man, the Bookstore, and the Noble Newspaper’
A FEW WORDS AS AN INTRODUCTION
Memorie.al / When we, Alizot’s children, used to tell “Zote’s” (Alizot’s) stories in joyful social circles, we were often asked: “Have you written them down? No? What a shame, they will be lost…! Who should do it?” And we felt increasingly guilty. If it had to be done, we were the ones to do it. But could we write them?! “Not everyone who knows how to read and write can write books,” Zote used to say whenever he handled poorly written books. While discussing this “obligation” – this Book – among ourselves, we naturally felt our inability to complete it. It wasn’t a job for us! By Zote’s “yardstick,” we were incapable of writing this book.
Continuing from the last issue…
“I’m not leaving the hospital…!”
During his days in the hospital, Zote would move through the wards to break the monotony. He would meet acquaintances and exchange some small talk. He had found an old teacher, a man from Dropull, who used to visit his bookstore but was quite naive. He was in a different ward. One day, as Zote was going up the stairs, he ran into him. The teacher was coming down, dressed in his own clothes and carrying a bag.
“And you?!” Zote asked him.
“I’m leaving the hospital; I feel better. Even during the check-up today, the doctors told me so, they gave me some instructions…”
“I thought you were a man of sense,” Zote cut him off. “Why, do you think most people staying in the hospital are sicker than you?”
“Certainly, Alizot, why else would they stay here, please tell me.”
“Like I do! Why, do you think that in my condition I couldn’t stay at home? But where would I go? Our houses are ice-cold; they won’t feel warmth until summer. Here, the food is free, and the heating is… heating. Sure, I take a needle once a day, but big deal – it’s not like we’re lacking places to be poked!”
The teacher listened intently. Alizot was right. How clever of him! But he was a devil, as always.
“You’re right, Alizot, but what about the doctors? If the doctor doesn’t admit you, how can you stay, please? A hospital isn’t a hotel!”
“You’re a bigger fool than I thought,” Zote told him. “A doctor knows how to examine you, but where it hurts and how much your soul aches, only you know. If you tell him nothing hurts, why would he keep you? I’ve figured it out for myself: every day I come up with a new tune, and they keep giving me that needle; it’s no big deal, it does me good, not harm.”
“So what do I do now that they’ve discharged me?!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Go on then, goodbye, do as you wish, it’s your business.”
Before reaching the third floor where his ward was, Zote heard shouting coming from below. Chuckling to himself, he went to his room and started reading. An hour later, he was called to the doctor’s office and told:
“Alizot, either tell this friend of yours to leave the hospital, or you’re leaving with him!”
Later, Zote laughed with the doctors, who told him how his “friend” had complained of pains that never appeared in the same place twice.
“It was my fault for not assigning him the locations of the pain from the start!” Zote admitted.
EXPRESSIONS ON HEALTH
Age was taking its toll. The oldest complained about their health. Their troubles increased. They frequented the “Bazaar” less often, then shut themselves inside their homes, and later, “took to their bed” (zinin stromën). This was the usual long old age in Gjirokastra. Zote described his own condition after passing sixty like this:
“We have entered a minefield. We are treading on mines. Thank God a big one hasn’t gone off yet, because these small ones have caught us plenty.”
“We’ve become like those old Gjirokastra houses. You can hear the beams creaking, especially at night. They go creak, creak. Holes have opened in the roof. The timber has started to rot. The eaves are sagging. And the master craftsman who comes to fix it opens two more holes while fixing one. Now, this is how it is with us – until the roof caves in on us!”
“I’m worried that one day I’ll wake up with my mouth twisted to one side, speaking Arabic, and no one will understand me!”
Whenever Zote fell ill, it was widely known because the bookstore would remain closed. This happened very rarely. He would leave the house even when sick. I don’t remember him ever staying home for an illness. He was forced to go to the bookstore also because he had to sell the daily newspaper.
When friends and comrades found out he had been ill, they gave the usual greeting:
“I hope it has passed, Alizot!” (Të shkuara)
“Ah,” Zote would say, “it wasn’t just passed (shkuara), it was pierced (shpuara)!” This implied that the illness hadn’t passed with just tablets but had required injections.
“Do you know how it is with a doctor?” Zote said during a conversation in the bookstore. “A doctor is like a hunter. He sets out with a shotgun on his shoulder to hunt. The illness is like a thicket where the doctor must find the wild animal hidden inside and kill it.
Behind the thicket, he only spots two tips of ears. The doctor loads the gun with birdshot, enough to kill a rabbit, fires, and waits. When the smoke clears, he checks again. If the ears are still there, it means it wasn’t a rabbit.
He loads again, this time with buckshot for a boar, fires, and waits for the smoke to clear. If the ears are gone, fine; if not, he’ll keep adding lead until the thicket is cleared. There are also doctors who load it to the brim from the start, and when they fire, they might rip out not just the rabbit’s ears, but the thicket and its owner along with it! That way, both the doctor and the patient learn their lesson once and for all. There you have your doctors – choose whichever you like, we have all kinds!” Zote concluded the comparison in the presence of the laughing doctors in the bookstore.
After listening to the usual complaints of old age from a friend, he would ask with feigned interest and curiosity:
“Tell me, I haven’t asked you, when you climb the Bazaar Pass, how do you hold your hands? Loose at your sides, or do you tie them behind your back?”
“Tied behind my back, or I rest them on my buttocks and climb slowly,” an elderly man replied one day. “It makes the climb easier.”
“On your buttocks, you say? Well, why didn’t you say so! You’re gone, my friend, you’ve joined the majority, but don’t worry – you’ve lived as long as you wanted!” Zote replied immediately, comforting him with a laugh.
“Oh, bless you Alizot, you’ve given me such great news! No one had told me that. But then again, it’s expected from you, being a man of books. But I put my hands on my buttocks, not someone else’s. Are you going to forbid me that too?” They were friends who were always teasing each other.
When a friend, a retiree from the Hunters’ Club, was missing for several days, they would worry. They asked each other with concern: “Why hasn’t he come out to the Bazaar? Is he unwell? Who lives near him? Who can we ask? He used to go to the club above Stavro’s Inn. No, I haven’t seen him lately.”
“Go take a look at the electric poles,” Zote told them once, “because who knows…! Read those death notices… Our names are bound to show up soon; it’s no surprise. Maybe he’s gone to take his place in line, because – God forbid – it’s a pity to remind him of it now, but the poor soul was always an impatient type!” They laughed reluctantly at Zote’s wicked joke, which settled the matter.
“Zote, where were you looking for me, on the telephone poles?” the sick friend asked when he returned, and the humor continued with everyone.
Zote suffered from hemorrhoids. There were periods when the condition worsened, and Zote endured the poor health with great suffering. He met with Doctor Vasili every day for advice and treatment. The doctor had done his duty many times, telling him to have surgery, but Zote couldn’t bring himself to do it! And it wasn’t his fault. The very part (his backside) that was supposed to “hold him up” was the one that was defective.
Once, this topic came up in the bookstore. Zote was venting his troubles to the doctor. The doctor lost his patience and said:
“I’ve told you a hundred times, Zote. Come to the hospital, and I’ll give you a backside that no one in Gjirokastra has. Everyone will envy it!”
“Why, doctor, what’s wrong with mine? Have you become like Malo the Cobbler, dying to patch up other people’s backsides?! Besides, what’s this talk about being envied? You’re not crazy enough to make mine better than yours!”
Doctor Koço sent me for an examination. He had spoken with Zote. I had been having severe stomach pains that stopped after two days. After finishing my visit with the doctor, I went to the bookstore. It was full of people.
“Well,” Zote said as soon as he saw me enter, “did you get checked?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“What did the doctor say?” he asked with concern.
“It’s your liver,” I explained.
“No! Look what he found!” Zote said. “How did he know we had raised you without a liver?! Fine, fine, I’ll have a word with him myself!”/Memorie.al
To be continued in the next issue…
