An Albanian Agony, Part Two

Handley bested by his Doppelg�nger?

By: Michael Miller - Jul 02, 2007

"By that time, Margaret was beginning to crack. She never complained or said anything at all about what she thought of life in Albania, but I could see she was beginning to realise her mistake. She feared Burbuqe and loathed Muhamed, and we never could go anywhere without him, except for an occasional stroll in our immediate neighbourhood. Of course she had no idea of the problems I was having with him, beyond his vague and fragmentary translations. She'd really led quite a sheltered life, you know, and she would have been appalled at what was going on under our roof, once she was made to understand it. Fortunately she never learned about it. But, between Muhamed's mere presence and our difficulty of communications I could see she was headed towards a crisis. I saw her cringe every time she smelled his cheroots in the air.

"But what finally brought it on was entirely another matter. With all the inconveniences of life in Tirana, we never had to think about laundry, fortunately. Our soiled clothes simply disappeared every few days and reappeared in our drawers a day later,frresh with the pleasant smell of clothes dried in the sun. Margaret had packed practically, bringing almost none of her best wardrobe with us, with the exception of a pale green silk blouse, to which she was particularly attached—I think it was a gift from her mother. One day, when we managed to escape for a passeggiata by ourselves and were taking a familiar route along a small river which ran through that part of the city. It wasn't the most salubrious or attractive river, but we liked to walk along it, because the streets felt somehow claustrophobic. People in the street had a way of staring at us. Often they would go straight indoors the minute they caught sight of us. We felt more comfortable by the river, which was more open.

"Muddy and yellow, the river was frequented by stray dogs and cats, scavenging the piles of rubbish people casually threw into the water or left on its banks. We often saw the bloated carcasses of these creatures floating, picked over by birds. You can imagine the smell. Of course Margaret wasn't thrilled, but she's a practical woman, you know, and we both agreed the river was the best of only a few equally unappealing options. She was always horrified to see women on their knees along it, scrubbing their wash on flat stones. That day we came on young Arlinda. She was kneeling by the river like the other women, cheerfully gossiping with a much older-looking woman beside her. (Arlinda had the most attractive rippling laugh.) Margaret's blouse caught our eyes immediately. That sort of pea green wasn't a common colour in Albania. It looked as if Arlinda were grinding it into the dirt—about ten feet away from the hairless, ballooning carcass of a dog. Then I began to make out other familiar articles of clothing in the girl's pile. Margaret tensed up, her eyes wide open in disgust and horror. Her right hand dug into my arm. Then she relaxed, seemingly numb. We walked on in silence for about twenty minutes more, then returned to our 'embassy' by another route.

"That evening after dinner we spent a while sitting in the garden. Margaret was drinking a local herbal tea, which I have to admit was absolutely delicious, and I sipped at a glass of raki, of which I had grown rather fond. As I was expecting, Margaret, waiting for a moment in which she could make it seem entirely offhand, told me that she had received a note, dated about two months before, from the Genceri in Rome. They were so disappointed not to see more of us during our last months. Of course she and the Count, who led a very private life, couldn't expect us to have much time to spare from official business, etc. etc. The Countess and Margaret were great friends. Whenever, I couldn't accompany Margaret to a concert or a play, they would go together. Hardly a week went by without them spending at least two afternoons together, either in their garden or in ours, or closeted up in their boudoirs. Margaret said, 'I really feel awful, neglecting them at the end like that. If you don't mind terribly, David, I think I should go back to Rome for a while, not long, of course. Maria has invited me to stay with them—us to stay with them—and I'd feel much better if I made it up to her.'

"It wasn't easy arranging suitable transport back to Italy, but it was done, and I accompanied Margaret as far as Durazzo. Our usual courier met her there and took her off, and we exchanged bags. Naturally I was sorry to see her leave, but you can imagine how relieved I felt. This diplomatic experiment was not for her. Once back in Tirana, I wasn't surprised to see Arlinda wearing Margaret's silk blouse, along with much of the rest of her wardrobe. Margaret must have brought almost nothing back to Rome with her.

"The next day I awakened to find the house silent and empty. No one was there, not the housekeeper, not the maid, nor Pashko the rat-faced house-boy. (I could understand why Burbuqe had engaged him.) I dressed and sat in the garden, waiting for Greta and Muhamed to show up. She appeared about a half-hour late. Without apology or any further comment, she set to work, arranging a trip for me up through the northern country, to which I was greatly looking forward—with a much calmer disposition, now that Margaret was safely gone. I left her to it, not wishing to distract this extremely focused lady with the disappearance of my household staff. However, I noticed she was avoiding my eyes more than usual. After about an hour Muhamed appeared. He reported briefly to me in my office, asked if he could be of any service, and rapidly set himself to slink away into whatever corner of the house he repaired to, when he had nothing to do. I stopped him, asking him where everybody had gone. For that matter why was he late? Was there some state festival? Muhamed shrugged and disappeared.

"My questions were answered about an hour later, when Burbuqe, dragging her subalterns behind her, stormed into the office, loudly demanding to be heard. I could understand that much from her gestures. Greta quietly went on with her work until I addressed her, directly asking her to act as an interpreter. I could see this was not a job for Muhamed. Burbuqe said that neither she nor anyone else would continue to work in the house, as long as the things that were going on continued. It was intolerable. She said—and here a curious exchange of glances between her and Greta took place—that under the old...she meant when she was young, she had seen a sodomite burned at the stake, and that was traditional law. She made a point of saying that the enlightened new government took no brighter of view of this evil, and that a similar fate was surely awaiting Muhamed.
Apparently he had always been fairly careful to keep a supply of boys coming over from the poorer neighbourhoods across town, but while I was away in Durazzo, he'd lured in a boy from the neighbourhood, hardly more than a child, from one of the best families—she corrected herself—a very loyal and important supporter of the government, and in the course of his devilment, he'd frightened the boy, or hurt him. The father was furious. Under normal circumstances he would kill Muhamed, but Muhamed was well known in Tirana as something less than a man, a person not worth killing. There would be serious trouble now, if I didn't dismiss Muhamed immediately, and she warned me that Albanians should not find out that westerners can't govern their own households. I asked Greta to explain to her that it was not up to me, it was up to my hosts, the government, and that I had requested a replacement for Muhamed in no uncertain terms—demanded it as strenuously as I could—but to no avail. The officials, up to Hoxha himself, seemed adamant that Muhamed remain in his post. I blurted out to her myself, shouting it three times over in English, French, Italian, in addition to the one relevant word of Albanian I knew, 'Do you understand, I can do nothing, nothing, nothing! asgjë, asgjë, asgjë!'

"She pulled herself up like an angry queen, said some bitter, pathetic line, and made her exit. I could hear her and her troupe head toward the kitchen, as the secretary translated what she said: 'as miserable a wretch as I was, she wouldn't let me starve.'

"Now, all my pleasant thoughts of an exploratory trip and my secretary's efforts to secure it were scattered. In French, our common language, I asked her for advice.

"'There's nothing you can do. You've done everything you can; you've tried to get rid of him, haven't you?'

"I sighed and nodded. She went back to work. I took my favourite straw hat I'd brought from Italy—really almost an ancient traveller's hat, like the one you see Hermes wearing on Greek pots—and went into the garden to compose myself. I sat on the bench and stared into a dark corner between a cypress tree and a laurel. The wind was blowing from an unlucky direction that day, and I found myself enveloped by the hellish fetor of the latrine. There was nothing to do but bear it, but I found I couldn't think clearly. After a while I detected Muhamed's pungent cheroot, an olfactory highlight in the excremental miasma. He appeared from the noon shadows, like some local spirit, an obese fawn or satyr in a greasy suit. He moved slowly. His eyes were dull. He seemed perfectly at peace with himself.

"'Luncheon will be served soon,' he said blandly.

"Taken aback, I continued staring beyond him into the shadows from which he had emerged. Then, without thinking, almost as if someone else were speaking, I said, 'Muhamed, I don't think you should sit down at the table with us. Burbuqe is very upset. I don't know what she'll do.

"'You have have done very poor work for me, and you've behaved unacceptably in the household. I've tried twice to have you replaced. Will you please go of your own accord to whoever put you here, and ask—beg, please, beg—to be relieved?'

"'I cannot do that, Ambassador,' he replied, 'I was an instructor at our finest school, and I was kicked out. A man with such prominent relatives as I—my cousin, you know—is bound to have enemies; there's nothing for it. If I were to leave my situation, he would be shamed. I don't know what he would do to me.'

"'Muhamed, do you realise you are about to destroy this whole enterprise. you, no one else? Your country could have trade with Canada, and perhaps other countries, acquire foreign currency. Things will be much better for you all. Don't you care?'

"He took a step forward, speaking quietly in his thick smoker's voice. 'You know the words of the great Greek philosopher, Heraklit? Panta rhei. Everything flows, everything changes, everything—in flux.'

"He sounded more like a physician than a philosopher. 'In a few months you will no longer be here. This house will be empty, or perhaps my cousin will move one of his women in here. Years from now, we will both be dead.'

"He curled his lip, showing his tobacco-stained teeth and a few gaps, 'Only our glorious democracy will live forever. You know who are my enemies? Ignorant old crones like Burbuque, the priests and—I should not speak the word so—the hoxhas, the mullahs, I mean. Soon they will all be dead.'

"'Muhamed, this is not helpful,' I said, clenching my teeth, 'I am here at the invitation of your—I almost said 'glorious democracy' in sarcasm, I remember—government at considerable sacrifice to myself. I could be at another posting. My wife has gone. I cancelled an important personal trip. I will not have it be for nothing.'

"Muhamed thought for a moment. Then he looked me in the eye, as much as he was able, and curled his lip into a triumphant smile. 'You want me to find you...companion? This afternoon, even, if you like!'

"'My God, man, can't you understand?' I moved towards him with an aggressive gesture. He stepped back, saying, 'I regret that I shall not be able to join you and the others at luncheon. I am feeling quite fatigued. I believe I should have a quiet meal alone. I'll go to the Skanderbeg. Perhap's I'll find my cousin there. What a pity it is so expensive.'

"He gazed at me expectantly with his wet grey eyes. I gave him a folded thousand lekë note, which I knew was much more than sufficient to feed him royally. He took it between his index and middle fingers, examined it with satisfaction, and inserted it in his breast pocket. He inclined his head curtly and made his departure.

"The midday heat was becoming oppressive, not to mention the stench of the latrine, but I remained on the bench, protected by my broad-brimmed hat. I began to reflect that this unfortunate domestic crisis, which I had avoided confronting, was becoming serious. My mission was to learn about Albania, to gain a comprehensive picture of its geography, society, economy, and culture in order to form the basis of a future relationship between our countries, that is, if our government thought it worthwhile. The Albanian government had initiated the mission with their invitation, but they were making everything as difficult as possible. I had been there almost a month and had accomplished nothing. There was no reason at all for Muhamed to be there. The secretary and I managed quite well in French, and, loyal a party functionary that she was, her natural meticulousness compelled her to give me full and accurate translations, as far as I could tell, but of course this was a diplomatic mission, and it seemed we could not function without an official translator to obstruct communication, spy, and waste my time.

"I pondered the situation as a whole for the first time, detached from my busy domestic and official staff, my entourage, who were about the only people I ever saw, now that Margaret was gone, who herself had been rather a distraction. I mean no unkindness, you understand.
Was I being set up in some way? I certainly can't say that I'm a stranger to that! If the Albanians, having invited me, intended it all to come to nothing, were they perhaps engineering an even worse disaster? Were they planning to attach the blame for Muhamed's misdemeanours to me? This mission only made sense if it were never intended to be anything more than an empty gesture. Before leaving Rome, I was informed that Albania's relations with the Soviet Union were worsening, and that Hoxha was building relations with China. Did he bring us on the scene simply to enhance his importance, to make Albania seem more important to the Chinese, giving them an apparent potential relationship with a country which shared a border with their worst ideological and practical enemy, the United States? If I were simply meant to spin my wheels here in Albania, Muhamed was extremely effective. But why complicate things in this way? I was sure everyone involved knew about Muhamed before they assigned him to me.

"What course should I follow in all this? Were relations with Albania really in Canada's interest? I felt flattered to be entrusted with this mission into uncharted territory of a sort, the most sequestered and least-known nation in Europe, and I had developed genuinely useful skills for the job in my years in Italy. Perhaps instead of being the man of the hour, I was nothing more than a patsy. I was available, and it was perhaps convenient to get me out of the way in the aftermath of my démission. Clearly my superiors had no intention of placing me in an equally important assignment. In those complex years after the war, I was useful, because I knew Italy and was a quick study, but today the likelihood of a Communist government with a clear majority is not terribly strong, and my ability to keep channels open with various Communist governments around the world is seen as only an undesirable encouraging influence. I know what it is to be put out of the way and here it was, happening again.

"My broadcasts were suffering, as well. Here I was in Tirana, and I couldn't talk about it. My listeners didn't know where I was, just that I was on a special mission. Since my mind was on little else, the talks I recorded about any other subject refused to come to life. I listened to one on the World Service and found it terribly discouraging. I couldn't blame them if they just stopped it.

"Burbuqe showed her head at the kitchen window and proclaimed lunch ready in her predator-like screech. I rose, feeling I needed a thorough cleansing and went into the house, feeling trapped. At that moment I should have liked nothing better than to lose myself in some good music, the bourgeois sort, which was unavailable in Tirana, where one heard either strident marches, the International and stuff like that, or their traditional music, which was more or less what one would hear anywhere around the southern and eastern Mediterranean. I promised myself I would try to get the RAI this evening. Mozart or Brahms would have been most restoring.

"In the afternoon I found I could generate little energy for work. I looked over all the papers and reports we had produced in order to accomplish exactly nothing. It seemed that as much effort had been spent organising a five-day 'fact-finding' excursion as had gone into the invasion of Sicily. When we suddenly got the news that it was approved and set for a specific date at the end of the month—everything: car, accommodations, party representative, Muhamed, local guides, animals...yes, some of the roads were impassible by motorcars. The Canadian and Canadian Communist Party flags were lying on the table by the wall, in anticipation of mounting them on the car...for safety, of course. I was it was dangerous to give the impression that one was British or American, who are so deeply hated by the Albanian people that I could be shot on sight. I wiped the perspiration off my temple and shrugged.

"I had one more immediate event to look forward to. My one respite during the mission was a conference in Urbino on academic exchanges between the West, the East Bloc, and the Soviet Union. I had organised it, so I had to attend, and no one, not Enver Hoxha, not any of my superiors, not that idiot from Prince Albert, could stop me. I hadn't thought of the Americans, but I'll come to that.

About a week later, Muhamed drove with me to Durazzo to meet the packet steamer. Our conversation was sparse and awkward. Then we fell into silence. We each looked out our respective windows at fields and sheep and the domed bunkers which lined the road. Then Muhamed turned to me with an unfocused, almost otherworldly gaze and a chilling smile. I didn't know if he was preparing to stab me or to reach inside my trousers. He sighed, sighing in guttural satisfaction 'panta rhei'—which appeared to be his motto. Then he spoke.

"'Ambassador, you seem an educated man. I assume you have read the Symposium of Plato?'

"I would have closed my eyes in revery, if I'd not thought it advisable to keep my eyes on him. He conjured up the very image of Cudworth, the beak at Harrow, who tried desperately to make his little barbarians appreciate the humor of Aristophanes' speech, which he considered a refreshing and paedogogically effective entr'acte between the Apology of Socrates and the Antigone. With a sickening Leonardesque smile, Cudworth rewarded successful constructions with one of the vile British chocolates of those days, probably out of some motive not unfamiliar to Muhamed, but when he realised that our laughter was not in the right spirit, he reached for the cane in fury. There was an American boy who called him "Candy Cane," and that stuck with him, as long as I was there, at least.

"I suddenly realised that Muhamed was drivelling on about the Symposium, while I was lost in recollection. His incoherent effusions were truly astonishing. Even I had underestimated the depth of his ignorance. The monologue culminated with the story that Muhamed and his school chums once acted out the Symposium, and he, Muhamed, was chosen unanimously to impersonate Socrates. By some miracle he managed to sit up straight, while he smiled triumphantly, revealing a gap between his brown molars I'd never seen before.

"I planned to stay on the packet as far as Ancona, in order to catch up with my preparations for the conference. However, somewhere in the middle of the Adriatic, a small naval craft of some sort hailed us and pulled up along beside us. An American official (He had State Department credentials, but I believe he was with the CIA.) accompanied by two MPs, found me in the lounge, such as it was, studying my papers and sipping a most welcome Campari soda. He said that they were offering an official escort and would I please come along with them. I knew there was no point in it, but I told him that I had a great deal of work to accomplish in the next thirty-six hours and had planned my itinerary accordingly. He answered, 'You'd better...please come with us, Ambassador.' Did you know "Ambassador" is a word which sounds particularly odious with an American accent?

"When we were on the American boat, the official directed me into a cabin, where the two of us sat alone. He asked me if I wanted coffee or a "Coke." I held up my Campari, which I'd taken along with me. Another, younger man in a suit entered and stood in the corner.

"'Look at him, Madson. They've even got him drinking red.'

"The man in the corner nodded his head and smiled sarcastically. The senior agent sat down at the table opposite me and said, 'If you start telling us everything now, we won't have to keep you in Bari very long, and we'll send you on your way.'

"'Bari!' I exclaimed. I was beginning to feel heated. 'There is a car waiting for me in Ancona.'

"'We'll let them know. We'll give you a driver and a car to get wherever you're going. We just want to have a little informal chat with you about Albania.'

"'Sir, I am a diplomat in the service of my country, which is not, it may interest you to know, the United States. I have nothing to say to you, and you should not be approaching me in this way.'

"'Ambassador, the United States Navy is offering you transportation as a courtesy. There is nothing official about this. I thought we could have a friendly little chat. It's not often guys like us get to go to a place like Albania, eh, Madson?'

"The man in the corner nodded, grinning.

"'This is outrageous,' I said, 'I demand that you put me back on the steamer immediately.'

"'Too late. They have their schedule, and we have ours. You have yours, don't you?'

"'...which you have disrupted.'

"'Look, we're doing you a favour, taking you to your conference. The least you can do is reciprocate.'

"'This is piracy. You're starting a major incident.'

"'I think the Ambassador needs to talk to his boss, don't you, Madson?'

"He turned to me. 'We're happy to put you on the ship to shore. Why don't you call the new ambassador in Rome and ask his permission to talk to us?'

"I was furious, and he knew it. As calmly as I could, I said, 'If you're not going to allow me to work, I should get some rest. Is there an empty cabin?'

"The two Americans laughed sardonically. 'You're a funny guy, for a Canadian.'

"'If you're offering me hospitality, you surely must be willing to accommodate my needs.'

"'There are only a half a dozen hammocks for the crew down below. You wouldn't want to lie down there. It stinks.'

"'I've just spent six weeks in Albania.'

"'Tell us about it.'

"'When we get to Bari, I'm calling the embassy, and not for permission to talk to you.'

"'Sir, if you want to get to your meeting on time, you'd better co-operate. We just want to know why you were in Albania, and what you've been doing there. It's Albania, after all. It can't be all that important.'

"At that point I sat back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. Neither of the men moved. They stayed in their places, waiting. This gave me an opportunity to reflect a little. It occurred to me that the Americans might have a second agenda, apart from quizzing me about Albania.  My initiatives were never very popular with the Americans. More often than not, they refused to participate in them. When they did, they usually ended up conceding more than they wanted. They were sending delegates to this one, I knew. They didn't consider education either terribly important or terribly threatening, but there was going to be a session on an exchange of scientists, both professors and graduate students, and I can't imagine they were too keen on that. What's more, if I were not to show up at the conference, if would seriously damage my reputation. I would have difficulty getting speakers for the next one. You can imagine, Ian, there's nothing I would rather do in this life than devote one of my broadcasts to this little incident.

"And it was, after all, a small incident. When we arrived in Bari, a limousine spirited the three of us to a villa outside the city. Oddly enough, I'd been in a place much like it once during the war, the same one even, I think, in a not dissimilar situation. They conducted me to an office I'd seen before and offered me a seat by a telephone.

"Since it was around eight o'clock, I knew Clara, the receptionist, would have gone home. I called my—the ambassador's—private line. The man from Prince Albert picked up himself.

"'Oh hello, Handley. Good to hear from you. You're on your way to Urbino, aren't you? Did you brief the Americans? I have a dispatch from Ottawa authorising you to co-operate with them. I'm sorry, there was no way to get it to you in time over there. Also, your mission's been cancelled. No need to go back. I'll bet that's good news for you. We saw your delightful wife just last night. I think she misses you quite a bit. Will you excuse me, we're going down to supper. I just can't get used to the hours they keep here. I could eat a whole buffalo!'

"All before I could get a word in. The Americans drove me to a pleasant little restaurant with a view of the harbour. We dined splendidly on the terrace, sharing three courses of seafood and several bottles of a decent local white—the first really decent meal I'd enjoyed since leaving Italy. The Americans weren't such bad chaps, when they were off-duty. It was all rather jolly, really, especially after the older agent—his name was Hudson—apologised so nicely for his insulting remarks. That evening and the next morning, I told them all they wanted to know, which wasn't much, thanks to Muhamed and his superiors, but they certainly found it entertaining, especially the story about Muhamed. They drove me up to Urbino on time. The Americans agreed to send a marine biologist from the University of Kansas to the University of Voronezh, and the Soviets sent a nuclear physicist to MIT. Following the conference I went straight to Rome and rejoined Margaret. She was excited about some news she had to tell me. We could go back to Canada, now, she said. The MP from northern Saskatchewan had died of old age, and my father said that, if I were to run, I'd probably win easily, but I had to get started immediately. He advised me through Margaret to take a flight back within the week.

"I wrote a letter to Greta, asking her to have my personal effects sent to me in Toronto, at the dreadful old Handley pile I hadn't seen in years. I never got a reply or a parcel. It was a good thing I'd taken the little Uher and my tapes with me."

At that point David twisted around, a little of balance, and shut it off. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment, dandling his empty glass in his fingers.

"You know, I left a rather good suit in Tirana. When I finally understood I'd never get that parcel from Greta, I could see Muhamed having it let out.

"I'd had it with diplomacy by then, and I was happy enough to have a flutter at Parliament. My only regret was that trip to Paris. I never had a chance to go to Paris."

Web: http://homepages.nyu.edu/~mjm11/index.html
e-mail: heliagoras@gmail.com