Art/Proze

Biography - A Traveller's Tale
by Lloyd Jones

Interviewing "The Black Cat"
Excerpts

In the morning we saw him off. Then we walked back to
the Dajti, where Diani was waiting to ring Nexhmije.

We rang the telephone number which Ilir had scribbled
down, and Nexhmije answered - which was to expected,
of course. But for Diani Nexhmije belonged to the old
pantheon of saints. Nexhmije had shared the royal
podium. It was scarcely believable that she should
answer her own telephone and ask that we avoid the
back entrance.

"She did stress the 'front entrance,'" said Diani.

Five o'clock, and although it was dark I could see no
sign of security.


Nexhmije came to the door herself, a woman with long
grey hair tied back in the schoolmistress bun. We
shook hands and followed her up the stairs to the
first apartment.

Inside the door we were shown into an austere living
room. On one wall, a large colour portrait of Enver
and herself standing outside their holiday home in
Vlore, one year before the Emperor's death. Two bowls
of plastic flowers on a coffee table. Another wall was
taken up with bookshelves, but few books.

I had thought to ask after Enver's real library, but
any possibility of this becoming a question-and-answer
session was quickly dispelled by Nexhmije. She wanted
to talk about old times, and to this end she had
prepared a speech.

We hear about Albania's isolation, and how the
country's drift towards China had come about after its
abandonment by the West.

"Abandonment by the West?"

In a strong, disapproving voice, she says, "Please let
me conclude."

Nexhmije continues - she continued, uninterrupted, for
two hours.

It is a lengthy dissertation scrambled by Diani's
increasingly panicked translation to the point of
incoherence. On she goes - out of control, and meeting
my glances with petrified eyes that beg me not to ask
what it is Nexhmije has just said.

And Nexhmije, none the wiser, presses on with her
"howevers" and "buts" and "wherefores," and in this
way the entire postwar history of Albania is bridged.

I am scribbling down nonsense when the monologue
suddenly terminates, and when I look up there is
Nexhmije, composed and happy as a cat.

"Did I talk too long?" she asks. "I hope not."

"Noooo," replies Diani, her hands pressed to her
knees, like a child wanting to please.

"Good," The cat smiles.

She excused herself then, and returns with a tray of
coffee and raki.

.....

She is pleased, very pleased to have the opportunity
to speak with friend. It occurs to me that she is, of
course, referring to Cliff's letter.

"These days," she says, "I found myself in need of
friends."

We talked about television, her favorite programs. She
doesn't care for Yugoslav television. It shows to many
American programmes. She prefers RAI for its sober
political discussions.

Nexhmije is in the middle of explaining an invitation
she received to appear on a French show when a power
cut pitches the room into darkness. Nexhmije, however,
is ready for this. We both are, and Nexhmije reaches
for a penlight the moment I flick on Bill's torch. Our
beams cross over the top of the coffee table and we
laugh about that.

Nexhmije finds a candle from the sideboard. I hold the
torch while she gets the candle lit, then she takes
care to move the candle closer to where I have been
sitting so that I can see my notes better.

This is not going the way I had wished. I note her
frail ankles, the tidy composition of her hands.
Nexhmije looks like somebody's grandmother.

Does she have nightmares? Did she see the way the
Ceausescus died - the unceremonious way Nicolae and
Elena were backed up to the wall, the way they sagged
to their knees like two sacks? These are the questions
the victims of bad biografi had asked in Rruga Ndre
Mjeda.

In October from a window in the Dajti Bill had watched
of 50,000 swarm up the Boulevard of Martyrs intent on
violence, chanting, "Death to the widow!"

I quietly let Diani know that I would like to hear
about Nexhmije's dreams at night. What enters her head
at four o'clock in the morning these days?

A look of terror comes into Diani's eyes, and a
slightly different question is asked.

Nexhmije, she says, is concerned for the young people.
She worries about them. They have been a little
spoilt, she feels.

"As far as the economic and psychological changes are
concerned, I am a little pessimistic," she says.

The young people have not realized how hard people in
the West work. She doubts whether the youth are
equipped with the right attitude to cope.

"Perhaps we are to blame, like parents who keep their
children indoors. Now the children want to go out and
away from the family."

She manages, somehow with straight face, to explain
why Albania had locked up its borders for so long.

"We had no possibility to allow people to go abroad
because they did not have the funds."

Of Albania's isolationist path: this is the fault of
the West. Where was the support from West after her
husband's criticism of Khruchev and the country's
split with the Soviet Union in the early sixties?

"Not even Italy came to our aid."

Long before Dubcek, before Lech Walesa, Comrade Enver
had attacked Soviet imperialism. And what happened"
she asked. China had been the only one to hold out a
hand.
Then had came the split with China, and ever since,
Albania had been left to live off its reserves.

We leave, with Nexhmije waving us goodbye from her
door. On the street, though, we glance back to a
curious sight. The power is on in the apartments above
and below Nexhmije's. I am left with the rueful
thought that perhaps halfway up that dim stairwell
Nexhmije is thinking how well the interview went for
her. She even agreed to a second visit.