An Albanian Agony, Part One

1957: decommissioned ambassador on a secret mission to the world's most mysterious country.

By: Michael Miller - Jun 30, 2007

I

The walls David had built up around himself were porous to a degree, but without the discovery of certain key facts they kept his secret safe enough. He could enjoy his privacy without making a fetish of concealment. The night we celebrated my D. Phil., David told me a story about what happened after he left the embassy in Rome over twenty-five years before, also a secret, but not a personal one. Just in passing he mentioned that he missed a trip to Paris he was hoping to make by himself—without Margaret or protocol—now that he was no longer Ambassador. At that time I had no inkling of what he was planning to do in Paris, what Paris meant to him, or what past experiences flavoured his view of those frustrating months. We'd had quite a lot to drink, otherwise, I'm sure, the bit about Paris wouldn't have gotten out. That evening David and Margaret took me to dinner at the Elizabeth, and, after the savoury and the port, when we returned to Boar's Hill, David announced that he'd opened a Latour '49 to cap the celebration.

"Heroic stuff it is too, Ian. You won't be content in your scholar's closet after this night. You'll be yearning for grander things!"

Margaret made her excuses and left the decanter to the two of us alone. It happened that my great event preceded the twentieth anniversary of David's broadcasts by no more than a week or two. He was preparing a special anniversary chat to mark it, and, rather than reminisce about the first show or even re-broadcasting it, he was planning something special. He thought it would be more amusing to talk about the time when the broadcasts departed from their accustomed weekly schedule—became intermittent—and almost disappeared altogether from the airwaves. This occurred during the months between his replacement as Ambassador in Rome and his retirement from External Affairs, when he was put in charge of a small delegation to Albania—eventually consisting only of himself. Canada was one of the first western nations to recognise that isolated country, in 1959, and David's mission led up to that, I suppose.

David was in one of his monologuing moods, and I was happy merely to listen. He eased into the story while we slowly made our way through our first glass. I was a bit stunned, not so much by all the alcohol we'd consumed as the quality of the wine we were drinking. I'd never had anything like it. It was like a living human presence there in the room with us, actually something rather better than the average man you meet in the street. It was as if some great spirit walked through the room, or like some sublime, richly textured music. I noticed David taking a surreptitious look at my face as I tasted it, and I could see his pleasure. He so wanted me to become more of the world! Could he ever expect me to have the means to fulfil that—in ways like that?

As we drank, occasionally munching on minuscule savoury biscuits that tasted of fennel and black pepper, David rambled on about about his last days in Rome and the guileless Prince Albert businessman who replaced him. David felt transported to another world, a strange new world he'd never dreamed of, as he escorted Diefenbaker's good friend, the solid citizen of northern Saskatchewan, who had never ventured east of Toronto. Wherever David took him, whether it was the opera, the Palazzo Massimo, or the Communist Party headquarters, his successor smiled the same bland smile, understanding nothing. After a fortnight of that, David and Margaret left for Bari in the embassy limousine, a stout navy blue Alfa Romeo, waved off by his innocuous Progressive Conservative epigone.

I may as well put down David's story as he told it, since I believe I remember what he said rather well in spite of the wine and the late hour.

"It was really rather frustrating. I must confess to a certain impatience with the man. I hadn't expected to have to spend so long with him, but he was very slow catching on. He couldn't remember names, and he couldn't understand why it mattered. Hopeless, really. I had wanted to get away by myself for a few days before going off. I had planned a short trip to Paris to hunt up an old friend I'd lost track of. But it wasn't to be. I couldn't put it off.

"So there we were, Margaret and I, on the back seat of the embassy car, looking out in opposite directions through our respective windows at the curiosities of the Via Salaria. We enjoyed a hearty lunch at Ascoli Piceno. All the while I was trying to talk Margaret into going home. She didn't understand that it was a hardship post. She seemed to think of Albania as a quaint little Mediterranean hideaway. She didn't understand that we would be living in a primitive country for several months. It wasn't just a visit. It was a sort of experimental mission. My brief was to explore every part of the country I could. The Albanians had approached Canada first: it was a unique opportunity to open up one of the most closed nations in the world, still staunchly behind Stalin some three or four years after his death. Margaret placidly looked out the window of the plush touring car, occasionally turning towards me with that bland dismissive smile she has, when her mind is set.

"Our excursion still felt so much like a weekend jaunt. After luncheon we wandered around a few of those wonderful stocky buildings of Cola d'Amatrice and rejoined the car and Remigio, the embassy driver. I always had a soft spot for him, since I'd done the same thing when I was starting out in the service. Of course Remigio was only a local employee, but no matter. We had to get down to Bari by evening. We were staying with friends there, and they were expecting us for dinner. We just had time to stop off in Recanati. I was keen to spend an hour on Leopardi's hilltop—which was, in fact, why I insisted we take the Salaria. Margaret had Remigio drive her to the town centre, where she browsed about the churches and the shops. I suppose I was feeling somewhat elegiac, what with the farewells in Rome and all that.

"Our hosts proved stout allies in my efforts to persuade Margaret to turn back. They painted the hardships of Albanian life with the kind of fluttering sarcasm and ribald exaggeration educated Italians are so good at, but Margaret would have none of it. She knew that neither of them, both specialists in ancient Greek lyric poetry, had been near Albania since before the war. She had a firm answer: 'So what if things haven't changed? All the better in this crass modern world of ours!'

"I knew what she was thinking, of course. It wasn't easy leaving Rome. We thought we were there for the duration, you know, and for my sake as much as her own, she wanted to stick together. I could have resigned, and we could have just stayed on in Rome as private citizens, of course, but I was barely past forty at the time, and I couldn't very well say no to the Albania thing. It was in a way an honour, or at least I chose to take it as one.

"One of our frigates the NATO fleet could spare for a day or two was waiting for us the next day to whisk us off to Durazzo. Our mission included a third member, a young economist named Portman, Cambridge man. He knew Greece and the Balkans very well, and I knew I would need help with all our reports, not mention a younger, more specialised point of view. That's what they listened to up at the top, in any case, already in those days. He met us at the dock, greeted us both most cordially and then disappeared until luncheon."

David paused, refilled our glasses, and reflected a moment, a hint of an ironic smile curving his lip. He turned around towards a veteran Uher tape recorder which sat on a table just behind the sofa. He said, "All right. Here goes. Let's do the talk now." He set the machine to record with a decisive twist of his hand.

"Cheers, Dr. MacInness. May you find a brilliant career ahead of you.

"Yes, lunch. Portman was really a charming young man. We were deep in easy conversation, and Durazzo took us by surprise, as we lingered over coffee. We went out on deck and leant over the rail, taking in the medieval buildings by the harbour. With all the Greek, the Venetian, and the Turkish elements, I couldn't help dreaming about Othello and Cyprus. It could just as well have happened there, or we could have been in Cyprus four hundred years ago. Only a few rather unimpressive modern cranes in the distance threatened the illusion. The frigate dropped anchor at the outer reaches of the harbour. An ancient lighter arrived to carry us to land. Our welcoming committee, consisting of a delegation of four from Enver Hoxha himself, including an interpreter, as well as the mayor of Durazzo and his entourage, waited importantly on the quay. There were still several hours of light left, and anywhere else in the world a car would have carried us straight to our destination, Tirana, which should have been an easy drive. But, either because of the Albanians' belief that the importance of the occasion demanded a protracted arrival, or because of a lingering medieval sense of distance, we were escorted to a local hotel, recently erected according to local, party-approved concepts of modernity. Stark and official-looking, the whitewash and terrazzo was relieved only by a wood-panelled reception desk, sideboards, and garish quasi-Turkish carpets.

"With solemn flourishes the welcoming committee led us up to the reception desk and hovered about solicitously to make sure there we had no problems checking in. It was only then that I noticed that Portman was missing. I looked at Margaret. She was totally at a loss. I turned to the chief of the welcoming committee, and asked him if he had seen the third member of our party, Dr. Portman. For a second he looked surprised. Then he moved his head in the ambiguous Levantine nod-shake of those parts and turned back to the man at the desk to supervise the business of checking into the hotel. I let them guide me through the forms for Margaret and myself, and we signed them. Two little cards, no different from anywhere else in the world, and we certainly didn't need the assistance of high government functionaries to fill them out. Then I turned to the official, and said, 'Dr. Portman will need to fill his out now. He's staying here with us isn't he?'

"He answered with a grave, glassy stare. It was already clear he didn't know much English, but his French was a little better. I repeated what I said in French, adding sharply, 'Où est-il, Dr. Porter. Je veux le savoir immédiatement.'

"'Attendez,' he replied brusquely and disappeared towards the entrance. When he came back five minutes later, he had the busy look of a man who had done nothing. He was playing for time. Meanwhile, a melancholy porter, who wore an immaculate starched white jacket over threadbare trousers and battered shoes, had joined us, ready to pick up our luggage and guide us to our room. Margaret stood impassively nearby.

"'Alors?'

"After a pause he began to speak, in rather better English than I expected, 'I regret to say, Mr. High Commissioner, that Dr. Porter is not here. He has returned to Italy. Unfortunately our officials found it necessary to refuse him entrance to our country. Our security has looked into his background, and he is not acceptable. The Supreme Comrade will explain at your audience the day after tomorrow. Please be patient.'

"I was livid. By then I was regarding young Porter as absolutely essential, certainly for the work, but also for civilised companionship. At that point I boiled over. I shouted at the man, demanding that the third member of our party be brought back immediately.

"This had no effect on him whatsoever. He oscillated his head in an obviously insincere expression of regret, then raised it, smiled, and said he would meet us in the dining room at eight for a festive banquet. I exclaimed, 'what?!' or some other meaningless Anglo-Saxon noise as he turned and left.

"The porter led us up to our room. I deliberately offered him a somewhat extravagant tip, which he refused with exaggerated protests. I could see the last thing he would do is profit from such a decadent capitalist custom at the hand of a distinguished foreign guest, probably under threat of being shot by the Party Chairman himself.

"Finally we had a moment of peace. I began to calm down. We showered under the trickle of cold water available in the private bathroom, rested a few minutes, and dressed. We said nothing about the incident. There was nothing for us to say. Nothing could be done. Porter was in the middle of the Adriatic by now, and I knew the frigate would have to report back to the NATO fleet as soon as possible. We spent the last moments of daylight at the window, looking out at the city and harbour. The old buildings, including a few minarets—very few—the loading cranes, and the docks stood out from the blue shadows in the peach-coloured glow of the setting sun. We noticed a broad terrace with a few scattered tables and furled umbrellas and looked forward to a leisurely dinner at one of them, hoping that only a few members of the committee would show up.

"We were disappointed, of course. When we arrived at the dining room entrance, a few minutes late, following an instinctively furtive passeggiata around the hotel grounds, a grave maître d' ushered us rapidly into a side-room, barely giving us a chance to get a look at the clientele, sparse as it was. Only two or three tables were occupied, all by  men, who waited in silence to be served. The doors to the terrace were closed, and we could see no lights or diners beyond them. The senior member of Hoxha's delegation, the obnoxious official, greeted us at the door with a stiff smile and waved us to a banquet table which was crowded with the groups of the afternoon as well as some new arrivals. I felt furious when I saw him, but the random chatter and buzzing in the room, all in this strange language, made impossible to focus on anything. Besides, we had get through this, and, if I made a scene then and there, I'm sure we would have found ourselves bound for Bari in the next fishing boat to leave the harbour.

"The room was not large, and its windows were closed, hidden by heavy grey curtains. The air was rank with the smell of black tobacco and seldom washed human bodies of both sexes and their clothing. Raki had already been passed around the table, adding a sour, fruity edge to the atmosphere. I apologised for our lateness. Our host guided us to our places, nodding his head, meaning 'no matter,' and handing us tumblers of raki for the first toast, which was greeted by a formidable approving shout for all. Our glasses were raised to an enormous painting of Hoxha, addressing a joyful crowd of peasants, all bearing flags, banners, or posies. Its garish palette was dominated by intense reds, oranges, and yellows, a combination I'd noticed elsewhere in the town. We nibbled on olives and other titbits and sipped raki for over an hour, before a fish course and a pungent white wine arrived, followed by a meat course, some sort of stew, and a sharp, thinnish red. The affair ended hours later with tumblers of their ferocious 'Skanderbeg' brandy. Although we could speak directly only with the interpreter, the alcohol, their few words of English or French, and my few words of Albanian got us through the evening rather decently. Even Margaret enjoyed herself, and, when we finally returned to our room after midnight, she collapsed instantly on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

"The next day we were transported to Tirana, not by car, as I'd expected, but by train. We were met by another committee at the station, but mercifully the ceremony didn't last long (I was promised an interview with Comrade Hoxha the next day.), and we (together with the Chairman's ubiquitous delegate) were off to our appointed quarters in an open carriage, pulled by one black and one white horse, decorated with garlands and four flags: the Albanian national and party flags, the Canadian, and one I didn't recognise. It had a red ground with a red maple leaf in a white circle with some circular pattern within it. In a way, I was glad to have some sort of local guide and interpreter, even if he was patently a spy. I asked him what that flag was. He answered in heavily accented Italian that it was the flag of the Communist Party of Canada.

"We arrived at what must have been a rather grand house in Tirana, although it was of fairly modest proportions. It was a whitewashed stucco palazzo with a classical façade of sorts, surrounded by a stout, whitewashed, rather battered wall, which was topped with an exotic wrought-iron fence. Between the crude pilasters there were French windows. In alternate bays these sported small, cast-iron balconies. The ground between the wall and the house was covered only sparsely with struggling grass, but behind we found a rather attractive garden, planted with Mediterranean trees and shrubs, as well as beds of small red flowers. In one far corner of it stood a convenience, really nothing more than a common jakes, with which we became only too familiar, not only through our necessary visits, but through the smell which wafted through the bedrooms at night, if the wind blew the wrong way.

"The house was pleasant enough inside. It had been built by a wealthy Catholic merchant before the First World War and now belonged to the government. Perhaps it was intended to give us a foretaste of a future Canadian Embassy, when and if it ever materialised. The rooms really weren't all that large, but they had high ceilings, French windows at the back, which opened directly into the garden, and fragrant breezes in the midday heat, as long as the wind was not blowing from that ill-omened region of the compass. On the walls there were darkened anonymous portraits, except for those of Hoxha and Skanderbeg, and on the floors the colourful local carpets.

"That was the best of it. The house was electrified, but current was only available intermittently, in all for about four hours a day, usually in the afternoon. There was also a telephone, but service was unpredictable. We always stood at the ready to make our necessary calls in clusters, whenever we found a dial tone. There was no plumbing, but the housemaid was efficient in changing the water in our basins and emptying the chamber pots. Everything was managed by Burbuqe the housekeeper, a severe, swarthy peasant-like woman, who always wore an elaborate village costume, as a sign of rank, I presumed, or perhaps as a gesture to our foreignness. Sometimes I thought of her more as a gaoler. Apart from Arlinda, the pretty young housemaid-cook, I had a secretary, Greta, a fortyish spinster who always wore western clothes, sombre communistic suits and shapeless brown shoes. She had little English, but passable French. Finally, and most necessary of all, there was the interpreter.

"I was keen to learn Albanian to some serviceable extent, but the Albanians threw every obstacle they could in my way. When I asked for a teacher, they told me that the interpreter (He was called Muhamed.) was the only man, but when I tried to arrange a regular time for lessons, he demurred, objecting that other business was more important, or that he had students to tutor. If I did manage to persuade him to set a time for a lesson, he would more often than not fail to show up, even though he spent between six and nine hours a day lounging about the 'embassy,' as Margaret and I called it between ourselves. Moreover, whenever we ventured outside the house and garden—these occasions were always planned in advance—Muhamed always accompanied us. If for any reason he couldn't, some taciturn government functionary took his place. I'll return to Muhamed in a minute.

"I should have thought about the mail before we even left Rome. As undependable as the Italian post was, you can imagine the Albanian service was another universe altogether. It functioned mainly as a courier service for government offices and party members, when it functioned—otherwise it didn't. I assumed everything we sent by mail would be opened and read, and for our small mission, no one had yet thought of an effective means of conveyance for a diplomatic bag. The sparse post we received, peppered with unnecessary questions, made it clear that not much was getting through.

"I was not only concerned about our official business in Albania, but about my broadcasts. The BBC had issued me an Uher—this one here—which ran on both batteries and mains, to make my own recordings. We thought the lack of studio conditions would even add a little excitement. But now, I feared, the tapes would never get to London. Beyond that, the mounting difficulties of communication were making Margaret feel ever more isolated, and it showed in her increasing nervousness. I brought the matter up at my second audience with Hoxha. I suggested that our embassy in Belgrade send a biweekly courier. He was horrified at the idea. After some time of barely controlled argument, I said that if I could not dependably file diplomatic reports with my government, I should simply have to leave immediately. By that moment, I had had time to think of another solution, a courier from Rome, who could meet me at Durazzo once a week. Hoxha agreed. So every week I went Durazzo by car, accompanied by Muhamed and a driver, and personally exchange bags with the courier, while his boat was waiting in the harbour.

"Muhamed was a retired teacher of some sort, given to quoting Shakespeare, Wordsworth, and Keats, and he had that air about him. He was very proud to tell me that he had once attended the University of Rome before the War. He would have obtained his degree, if he hadn't been attacked by brigands in the streets, he said. After months in hospital he was sent home, almost in a coffin. A corpulent man with thin white hair and a grey pencil moustache, he always wore the same dirty grey or black double-breasted suits and a sparkling white shirt (Those he kept clean. I found it curious how those people always managed to wear one immaculate article of clothing, no matter how worn and filthy the rest might be.), sometimes with a tie, sometimes open at the collar. He wore either worn black mesh Oxfords or sandals with this. A teetotaller, he was constantly smoking evil-smelling black cheroots and belching, as if he had constant heartburn.

"He had one particular vice which infuriated Burbuqe. When I was out of my office, he would bring boys there. He made rendezvous with them to wait outside the house at certain times when I was likely to be out or resting in the garden, and in a flash, as soon as I disappeared, he had them in my office. I personally never witnessed any of these trysts, but Burbuqe often discovered him in my office. He must have taken them there to impress them. Perhaps he even claimed it was his own office. She came to me at one point gesticulating hysterically, communicating through Greta, who stared sullenly at the floor as she translated. She wanted me to report him, to flog him myself in the street, to drive him away. I thought this absurd, since the entire staff most likely were spies, and his disportments must have been public knowledge even without them, as such amours usually are around the Mediterranean. As far as I was concerned, he could do what he liked, as long as it didn't get in the way of work. I did try once to get him replaced, because his work in general was far from satisfactory, but the Albanian authorities refused. Hence I had to put up with his half-translations, his prevarications, his refusal to teach me Albanian, and his spying, as well as his old-world paederasty. Once, when I was about to complain to him about a missed lesson, he interrupted me before I could begin, as if he could read my thoughts, saying 'I cannot help it. It is an ancient tradition in my country.'

"Oh dear, I don't believe they'll run this. Now, I hope, you understand why I keep that backlog of fluff?" David stopped the Uher with a spirited tap on the appropriate key, refilled out glasses. We both sniffed our wine in silence for a minute or two, before David, started up his venerable machine once again.

"By that time, Margaret was beginning to crack," he began...