Democratic Party MP Agron Gjekmarkaj has responded to the Socialist Party assembly with a satirical piece. Drawing on Nikolai Gogol’s novel “Dead Souls,” he casts Prime Minister Edi Rama as Chichikov and mocks the relationships among Socialist leaders.
At the heart of the story is Rama’s clash with Spiropali, whom Gjekmarkaj calls “Mamica,” as well as a discussion of removals and expulsions from the party’s governing bodies. The satire also takes in the positions of Fatmir Xhafa, Pandeli Majko and Erion Braçe. It ends with another allusion to Gogol and Chichikov.
Të lidhura
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Democratic Party MP Agron Gjekmarkaj’s post:
A chronicle from the gathering of the “dead souls”!
Babo arrived at the assembly like Chichikov, troubled by a question he could not shake: when a person’s body is alive but their soul is dead, are his serfs merely names in a register, or people who once lived? His thoughts were cut short when eggs began pelting his car like hail. Then came anger, resentment and fury. Summer had left a bitter taste, autumn had been harder still, and winter had left him a wreck.
For weeks he had been hiding, sometimes in a chest, sometimes in a wardrobe, and he looked somewhat older. His complexion had gone from white to yellow, then red and finally black. Nor were his stalwarts at ease: fear had put so many of their clothes out of commission that they turned up at the gathering more covered than dressed.
Demir Demo had borrowed butterfly-patterned pajamas, galoshes and a cloak. His Lowness wore mottled military fatigues and a German helmet; he gazed devotedly at Babo as if at a pharaoh, convinced that he had chirped all the right things in the days of trouble and was now due his stipend. Playful Sofian had chosen pink shorts with black snakes and a Japanese-style top with lions. Pirro Dengu, like a harlequin, took his place behind the former Buçko. Vullnet Sina wore traditional breeches and a short woolen jacket.
Pandi Majko looked as though he had just stepped out of a legend: a fustanella, gaiters, a vest, a hat resembling Mihal Grameno’s and a yataghan at his belt. But let us not dwell on the clothes.
The Chronicle, too, had considered hiding for a while, like Babo. In grim months, as soon as people realize you are no donkey, they load you up tenfold; in these parts, the innocent pay for the guilty, and you may get a beating when you expect a treat. The chief author went to the front of the protests a couple of times only after Deputy Leader Flamur pledged that blood would rise to a horse’s knee if so much as a hair on his head was touched.
Flamur solemnly declared that women and children were under his protection. Those behind him admired him; I felt like a child. If Jorush of the Tabakus and Sajme Koreshi can appear at the gathering as the voice of the people and of God, why shouldn’t the chronicler? Kostaqi, who had often offered himself as a sacrifice, took some bread and descended into the academy’s cellars to chip away at an encyclopedia. In truth, he was keeping watch near Tabir in case someone set Nikollaqi’s throne on fire.
After breaking into a sweat a dozen times, the Chronicle decided it was worth coming out and showed courage when others failed to appear. Yesterday it realized that it had deep roots, nourished by people’s desire to laugh. Six or seven people on the inside became its unpaid correspondents. They urged it to make jokes, bear witness to history, live to tell the tale and not betray the clan. An entire secretariat transcribed the recorded voice messages and the written ones.
From the hall came Babo’s growls and gasps, the effort of swallowing his saliva and Klosi wiping his nose. There was Bela’s Siberian chill, Mamica’s storm-like breathing, Xhafa’s cries, Tao’s dry cough, Dilo’s dozing, Bora’s moans, Paulin Nufi’s scratching and Terme’s vows to slap, one by one, those who had abandoned the field on the day of reckoning.
When Babo rose, the hall fell silent as a tomb. Only at the back were two fear-induced reports heard from the lower barrels. After a long pause, he slammed his fist on the lectern, raised his bloodied hands and displayed his “stigmata,” like Padre Pio. He told them he had been crucified for his own “Judases” and that God had spoken to him: without him, he said, they were worth nothing. Then, pausing between words, he called them scoundrels, lowlifes, villains, ruffians, fools and rogues.
As amateur footage showed, he rolled his eyes and a drawn-out “huhhh” swept through the building. He accused them of having bought his shroud, written his obituary and laughed at the thought that he was finished. Twice more his fist came down on the wood. They had reckoned without the innkeeper, he told them; now he would come at them with a dagger. Ervin Hoxha collapsed on the floor, trembling, and for several minutes no one dared help him up.
Babo then announced that he would put two people on a spit: Mamica and Plarent from Mirdita. Kulaks, he said, remain kulaks, while Enver Hoxha’s party cannot deny its traditions. He addressed Mamica separately: from that day on, he would no longer be her Gjergj, while he called himself an unfortunate Skanderbeg.
A lament rose like old woman Nice’s. Auntie, Ekonomi, Antoneta and Zeniqe joined in, distraught; Çuçi offered them a handkerchief to dry their tears. Babo went on accusing Mamica of sending him letters, writing posts, proposing new contracts and dressing like Che Guevara during his bad days, while crows and ravens pecked at his liver. He called her “Flamingo” and told her that if she wanted to take his place, she should wait on the steps of the Socialist Party, just as he once had.
In the name of his own church, he declared that he would excommunicate and banish her like Jovan Bardhi. He cursed her and invited her to speak, telling her it was the last time she would be among them. Mamica rose like the prophet before the king: everything might have been lost, except honor and God’s judgment.
She accepted being called “Flamingo” if it meant seeking a better Albania, free and fair elections without strongmen, government instead of domination, a fight against corruption and crime, and dignity over submission. She recalled that she had joined him out of belief, with no directors or power behind her. At the other end of the phone, listeners expressed astonishment: to them, it was heresy for little Mamica to stand up to great Babo.
Fatmir Xhafa criticized him from time to time, but also spoke sweetly to please the fuming Babo. His conclusion was that there could be punishments, reprimands, self-criticism and heart-to-heart talks with the party, but no expulsions.
Then Majko rose. He said that “Sodom and Gomorrah” were among them and that the excesses, pleasures, excitement and money of power had been captured in a thousand hours of video. He called for resignations and departures. Most looked at him angrily: if all those people left, they muttered, the hall would be deserted. Babo cut him off with a “Shush!”
Braçe, gloomy for months and as quarrelsome as ever, roared like Rrapo Hekali. Putting a slightly favorable gloss on it, he said theirs was a party of freedom, not expulsions: even if one Mamica falls, thousands more will rise. His Lowness wondered where he saw these thousands, while eagerly awaiting changes to the government, which would be made later. Babo thought he should handle Xhafa and Majko gently, fearing that criticism and opposition to expulsions were becoming a trend.
Damua wanted to speak as he watched Mamica’s much-discussed curls, which, in the telling, were catching fire. But he remembered Ditmar: a backpack on his shoulders like a Hungarian tourist, unable to find peace and occasionally eating ice cream standing up. He shuddered and chose to remain silent. Nikollaqi sat in a daze, as though at a memorial service; he had received a modest compliment, but it was better than nothing. Ogi was trying to wake as if from an incomprehensible dream. Toni was thirsty, his tongue dry and his head aching, but he could find no water. Rifat Salla from agriculture resembled a mournful bust.
Karakaçi felt lighter when he recalled the time when he was nobody. Gonxhe ate in secret, now a biscuit, now a sham pastry. To prolong the Chronicle’s life and honor its cooperation and reliability, Babo read an earlier passage of it when he addressed Etilda as a counterexample: calm and hardworking. Let Ms. Kore say what she likes; Etilda works day and night for a little light, without a mandate or a government, confined to the Prime Minister’s Office. Gentle, crystal-clear tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. The comeback is near!
Tao stood like a frail man sacrificed for the cause, though he had a big heart and knew how to forgive. Klosi had to put the matter to rest twice. At first, after the assembly, he spoke listlessly and vaguely, leaving it unclear what fate awaited Mamica and Plarent. In the afternoon Babo called him, rebuked him sharply and sent him a different text: both were done with the “Forums.”
If he is still the man we know, Bledion Nallbaja cannot bear this calamity. For Mamica’s honor, he was ready to fight the great powers, the Slavs, the Greeks, the Turks and even NATO itself. Now he sees the enemy’s hand touch her eyelashes and turn her from a sister into a foe by stripping her of her name.
Fear is coming toward Tirana with the winter roar of the Devoll River. Epic nights lie ahead. Nikolai Gogol was there yesterday; when he left, he did not take Chichikov with him. He left him among us.
