Stories from Gjirokaster

Stepping over the threshold of the Kadare House Museum is like opening the first page of his memoir Chronicle in Stone. It’s as much narrative as museum. The house contains so many stories from Kadare’s life that it’s a revelation to wander the building seeing previously imagined rooms and objects come to life.

The first object is the ‘cistern’ (well) that floods the house and his imagination in the opening pages:

‘ I went to the opening [of the well] and looked down. Darkness. Darkness and a feeling of terror. 

“A-oo,” I said softly. But the cistern didn’t answer. It was the first time it had refused to answer me. I liked the cistern a lot and often leaned over its rim and had long talks with it. It had always been quick to answer me in its deep, cavernous voice. 

“A-oo,” I said again, but still it was silent. I thought it must have been very angry.

I thought about how the countless raindrops were gathering their rage down below, the old ones that had been languishing there so long getting together with the newcomers, the drops unleashed by tonight’s storm, plotting something evil. Too bad Papa had forgotten to move the pipe. The waters of the storm never should have been let into our well-behaved cistern to stir up rebellion.’ (p.5)

The exhibition is inspired by stories rather than chronology or theme. It’s a series of chapters focused on small and specific details from his boyhood. When the Italians invade the city in 1939, his house comes alive with women, rumours, fear and danger: 

‘With a worried look on her face, Mamma went down to open the door, while Grandmother stood waiting at the top of the stairs.

Then she too went down. The upper floors fell silent. The door opened. Someone came in. Someone else went out. Then someone came in again. The muffled sound of women’s voices reached my ears. I tiptoed down the steps, trying not to attract attention. There was definitely something serious going on downstairs. The door creaked again. A hum of words I could not clearly distinguish filled the air like a haze. No one noticed me.’ (p.88)

I climb these stairs, up and down for hours: looking, listening, watching, waiting, reading. I’m reluctant to leave because I think I’ll forget everything but I needn’t have worried since Kadare’s words are solid and durable, as if constructed of the same stone as the house itself. It’s no accident it’s a Chronicle in Stone.

I finally climb back up to the guest house where a plump elderly lizard in a paisley waistcoat sits in the dining room, his loquacious tongue flickering back and forth in search of prey. I’m easy meat - an old bloke on his own and anyway there’s nobody else around. 

“Where ya from?” Before I can reply he tells me he’s from Texas but has lived for nearly forty years in Japan (hence, I discover, his self-bestowed honorific of Norman-san) where he still works as a lawyer even though he’s 73. His slow Texan drawl has been clipped and sharpened by decades of Nihongo so he efficiently spears me before I even notice.

“I’m from England - in the north,” I reply but he’s already stopped listening. “Have you been there?” His eyes respond with glee at my question. I soon learn that any question will produce a reply of formidable length and forensic detail.

“Why not come an’ sit at ma table an’ I’ll tell ya a story ‘bout your Dook of Edinburgh?” This is the kind of invitation a shark might offer a passing goldfish. I sit down.

“I made that Dook of yours take notice of Norman-san. I was in London with a friend o’ mine who was the Tanzanian ambassador an’ he said to me why don’t ya come along to this reception as ma guest. So I’m standin’ in line an’ I’m watching that Dook of yours.” (I have a vague notion of disavowing the Dook and asserting my republican credentials but quickly realise the pointlessness of such an idea). 

“An’ I can see he’s bored outta his mind with all this handshakin’ and small talk so I say to myself: Norman-san you’re gonna shake things up a bit.” He emits a self-congratulatory wheeze that sounds like a collapsing accordion before continuing. 

“I get up to that Dook of yours an’ I shake him by the hand, look him straight in the eye an’ I say in ma best voice: “Good evening your royal highness, I once slept in your bed!” An’ that stopped him short and he looks at me like I’ve farted in one of your cathedrals an’ says “What on earth do you mean?” So I told him ‘bout the time I was in Nairobi an’ I stayed in this safari lodge where he’d been the week before an’ all the folks there were still talkin’ ‘bout him an’ I said to them, ‘Which room was he in?’ an’ they showed me this suite ‘bout the size of Buckingham Palace an’ I says to them: ‘That’s where Norman-san’s gonna be sleepin’.” 

He pauses for a significant moment and then barks at me: “Favourite movie!?” I’m taken briefly aback, having drifted into listener mode, and reply hesitantly, “Godfather 2”. He shows no sign of registering this information and says “Five Fingers. James Mason. Best movie ever. I write ‘bout movies for Japanese magazines.” This is accompanied by a confrontational glare in case I dare doubt his views or credentials. I don’t. “That James Mason - you gotta love his voice. Seen it?” I never have. “Well ya gotta. It’s on You Toob!” 

“I was a smuggler once, ya know.” Confrontational glare again as another story begins. “Spent lockdown in Kuala Lumpur in one of their top hotels. Stuck there over a year. On the staff were all these Afghani exiles who’d escaped from the Taliban an’ were tryin’ to figure out how to get back there. Anyway, I got to know them pretty good an’ they started tellin’ me they wanted to get money an’ medicines back to their families in Kabul an’ could I help them.

So come the end of lockdown I said I would try an’ they’d been savin’ all their wages that came to 3000 dollars so they said to me could I buy some medicines with that an’ take the rest in cash. So that’s what I did. Course, it wasn’t easy. Soon as I got off the plane at Kabul I got taken into customs and this guy goes through all ma stuff but I didn’t try to hide anythin’ and he says: what’s all this? An’ I tell him I’m bringin’ money into the country for his people an’ they need medicines an’ why’d he wanna stop me doin’ that? He looks at me like I’m half crazy but I could see respect growin’ in his eyes. He says, you know what a risk you’re taking? I said I know but it’s worth it ain’t it? An’ he looks at me again an’ he puts all ma stuff back in ma bag an’ he puts his hand to his heart an’ says Assalamu Alaikum an’ off I go.”

Norman-san has told stories throughout dinner and it’s time for bed. My head is swimming with cisterns, stone cities, invasions, Dooks, Toobs, smuggling. I feel like a small child who’s binge-watched Jackanory. I stand up and bid him goodnight. “One more story!” he asserts but I shake my head and go. 

Next morning he’s still there, in the same place, wearing the blue paisley waistcoat and it's possible he has never moved. “What ya doin’ today?”  

“I’m leaving. Heading back to Tirana for a few days. How about you?” 

“Ah’m stayin’ - been here a couple of weeks. Gotta get into town one day but ma hip’s playin’ me up.” He glances in the direction of a walking stick propped against the table. I can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever leave.

“Remember that Tanzanian ambassador I told you ‘bout?” I nod my head and another story begins: this time involving a light bulb, a blanket over an open window, drug smuggling suspicions, an arrested Norman-san, rescued by the ambassador who is now Foreign Minister and so it is his stories will burgeon endlessly and always, only in need of an audience.

The original name of Gjirokaster was ‘Argyro Kastro’ which means castle and city of silver. But I will always think of it as a city of stories built in stone, memory and language.