Читать книгу The Successor - Ismail Kadare - Страница 8

The files on Albania lay mouldering under a thick coat of dust. That wasn’t by any means the first time that such lack of rigour had been observed inside various intelligence agencies. As can be imagined, the observation carried more than a hint of criticism on the part of the ranking officers and spread a sense of guilt among the subordinates, who set about reopening said files, promising never to shirk their duties again.

What was known about Albania was mostly obsolete, and some of it was distinctly romanticised. A small nation whose name meant “Land of Eagles”. An ancient people of the Balkan Peninsula, who had succeeded the Illyrians and perpetuated their tongue. A new state that had emerged from the ruins of the Ottoman Empire at the dawn of the twentieth century. A land of three faiths: Catholic, Orthodox and Muslim, declared a monarchy under a minor German prince of the Protestant persuasion. Then a republic under the leadership of an Albanian bishop. Who was overthrown in a civil war led by the next king, this one a native. Who was overthrown in his turn by another sovereign — an Italian monarch, as it happened, who confiscated the Albanian crown and proclaimed himself “King of Italy and Albania and Emperor of Abyssinia”. And finally, after that grotesque coupling, where for the first time in their history Albanians were led to constitute a state on an equal footing with Africans, came the outbreak of Communist dictatorship. With new friendships and bizarre alliances solemnly made and haughtily repudiated.

On that part of the story, in fact, and in particular on the two major squabbles, first with the Russians then with the Chinese, most of the files bore traces of subsequent revision. Several extra sheets had been slipped in, containing analyses, reflections, facts and forecasts, most of which ended in a question mark. The addenda were mostly attempts to work out which way Albania would turn next: towards the West, or once again to the East? The answer was rendered even more uncertain by its being dependent on other questions for which answers had never been found. Was it in the West’s interest to draw Albania into its bosom? Some position papers seemed to refer to the possibility of a secret accord between the Communist bloc and the West: We’ll drop Albania — on condition you keep your hands off it too. One of the files even quoted a brief in which the issue was stated explicitly: Should the West risk alarming the Soviet camp by seducing poor little Albania, or keep the sweet talk for a better-endowed bride, namely Czechoslovakia?

But interest had manifestly waned as the years went by, and you could measure the growing distance by the resurgence of archaic and romantic terms in the notes and briefs in the agency files — words related to the royal fowl, the eagle, and to the age-old law book called the Canon of Lek, or Kanun.

All that seemed to be but a dress rehearsal for what would take place years later, when Albania broke off relations with China. The same questions would be asked, the same answers suggested, and apart from the fact that it was all a bit more bland, and that the word “Poland” replaced “Czechoslovakia”, the conclusions were roughly the same as before.

The death of the Successor that cold December was therefore the third time the files on Albania had been dusted off. Supervisors in various intelligence agencies grew ever more critical of their clerks: we’ve had enough folklore, and to hell with your birds of prey! We need some serious background on the country! There were forecasts of upheaval in the Balkans. An uprising in northeastern Albania, which some people called Outer Albania and others called Kosovo, had just been put down. Was there any connection between that rebellion and the event that had just taken place inside the country?

On one of the files, some exasperated hand had inked a red circle around the words “Are there six million Albanians, or only one million?” and added an exclamation mark to the question. Then scrawled his own exclamation: “Unbelievable!” In the view of the unnamed annotator, such hazy reporting, such imprecision, boggled the mind. Lower down the page, an identical question mark stood next to the query “Muslims or Christians?” A pencilled note in the margin added, “If there are not just a million Albanians, and if they are not all Muslims, as the Yugoslavs assert, but six times as many, that’s to say roughly the same size as other Balkan peoples, and if they’re not just Muslim but split three ways between Catholicism, Orthodoxy and Islam, then the geopolitical picture we have of the whole peninsula will probably have to be turned completely upside down.”

A transatlantic intelligence agency was the first to realise not only that its espionage operation in Albania was completely outdated, but that a significant number of its agents, most of whom were getting on in years, had gone over to the Albanian Sigurimi. That was presumably why the news from the country following the death of the Successor was so disconcerting.

Nonetheless, the western cemetery of the capital was the scene of the burial of the deceased, which took place in a biting December wind. Members of the family were in attendance, together with a couple of dozen high-ranking state officials. There were some government ministers and the heads of a number of institutions, among them the white-maned president of the Academy of Sciences. Soldiers and other officials bore wreaths. The funeral oration was pronounced by the dead man’s son. As he reached his final words — “Father, may you rest in peace” — his voice cracked. No salute was fired, no funeral march played. Suicide was still, very obviously, a mortal stain.

The December night swallowed the hills that surround Tirana one after the other, as if it was in a hurry to get the day over with. Two solitary soldiers in arms standing guard at the head and the foot of the newly filled grave of the Successor appeared to be all alone in the civilian necropolis. About a hundred feet away in the dark, other people not in uniform slunk behind the hedge, on the look out.