Chronicle in Stone

Javer tossed the paper aside.

“Those barbarians with feathers in their hats are happy to resurrect any medieval custom, as long as Mussolini can get something out of it.”

Javer had been expelled from the secondary school two weeks before for having taken part in acts of violence against an Italian teacher. He was now working in Mak Karllashi’s tannery.

He took a small piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled on it in his slanted handwriting: “Forget about this idiotic magic. We have other things to worry about.”

“Not bad,” said Isa, polishing his glasses, “but maybe it would be better if we explained it a little more scientifically.”

Javer scowled, but not for long. The two friends finally noticed that we had been listening to them.

“Hey, you ghost-hunters! Have you been spying on us?”

The truth was that, like most kids in the neighbourhood, we were always on the lookout for magic talismans. We spent entire days searching everywhere: under doorsteps, in old cabinets, on roofs, in the bottom of fireplaces. Traces of our searches could be seen everywhere, and were especially apparent when it rained and the roof slates we had moved let in leaks. We had concentrated our investigations around Nazo’s house, because of her beautiful daughter-in-law.

Despite all our efforts, we had not found a single talisman, and we never imagined that we would discover one just when we had finally given up all hope.

It happened one sunny day in Fools’ Alley. We wouldn’t have traded this crooked ugly alley for any boulevard in the world, because no great street would ever have been so generous as to let children peel off its cobbles in broad daylight and do whatever they wanted with them. But Fools’ Alley, crazy as it was, allowed us to do that.

That day we were playing at throwing stones, when suddenly someone shouted in fear: “Look at this!”

We all ran towards him, then stopped, petrified. His face was tinged with green as he pointed to a dark spot on the ground. There among the rocks lay a magic ball the size of a fist. We cast frightened glances at one another and words stuck in our throats. (Xhexho later told me that the magic had stolen our power of speech.) But then suddenly great courage came upon us, as sometimes happens in a dream when you find yourself alone in some dark, deserted street, and your heart pounds in fright, and you sense that something evil is going to happen in this strange street, and you wait and wait for the evil but it holds back and you wait some more and your fear mounts and then somewhere something moves and a shadow, a half-seen face, comes near and your knees buckle and your voice goes and you’re about to faint but then suddenly, at the last minute, some insane fury grips you and your limbs feel free and your voice booms like thunder and you cry out, you charge the ghost and you… wake up. And that’s what happened to us.

“The magic! The magic!” we all yelled. Ilir picked it up and carried it off

“Witchcraft, witchcraft!” I yelled along with the others, and without knowing why, we raced down the alley, Ilir in the lead. We charged after him, screaming and panting in a mixture of joy and horror.

Shutters flew open noisily, and women young and old stuck their heads out in terror. “What is it? What’s going on?”

“The magic! The magic!” we howled, thundering through the neighbourhood like a pack of mad dogs.

Kako Pino appeared in her window and made the sign of the cross, Nazo’s beautiful daughter-in-law smiled with her big eyes, Mane Voco poked the long barrel of his rifle out of the dormer, and Isa’s face lit up behind the big lenses of his glasses, which shone like two suns.

“Ilir!” cried Mane Voco’s wife, pinching her cheeks and lurching after us. “Ilir, my son, for the love of God throw it away! Throw it away!”

But Ilir paid no attention. His eyes bulging, he ran on, as we followed behind.

“The magic! The magic!”

Our mothers shouted to us from windows and doors and over garden walls. They clawed their cheeks in horror, threatened and wept, but still we ran on, refusing to abandon the magic object. We believed we held the city’s anguish in that filthy ball of rags.

In the end we got tired and came to a stop at Zamani Square, bathed in sweat and covered with dust, barely able to catch our breath, but radiant with joy.

“What do we do now?” someone asked.

“Anyone have a match?”

Someone did.

Ilir lit the magic ball and threw it down. As it burned, we began to shout again, then unbuttoned our flies and pissed on it, cheering wildly and sprinkling each other for fun.

Water from the cistern wouldn’t lather. “It’s bewitched,” said Xhexho. “Change it at once or you’re done for.”

Changing the water was a tough job. My father was reluctant. Grandmother insisted on it, and the other neighbourhood women who drew water from our cistern took her side. They collected some money and offered to work all day alongside the cleaning workers.

At last the decision was made. The chore began. The workers went up and down by rope, lamps in hand. Bucket after bucket was emptied. The old water came out to make way for the new.

Javer and Isa sat staring and smoking at the foot of the stairs, and burst out laughing from time to time.

“What’s so funny?” asked Xhexho. “Why don’t you get a bucket and give us a hand?”

“This great labour reminds us of the pyramids of Egypt,” said Javer.

Nazo’s daughter-in-law smiled.

The buckets were deafening as they clattered off the walls of the cistern.

“What we need is new people, not new water,” Javer said. Isa burst out laughing.

Mane Voco, Isa’s father, looked disapprovingly at the two boys.

Grandmother was coming down the stairs carrying a tray with cups of coffee for the workers.

Breathing hard, they sipped their coffee standing up. The lack of air deep in the cistern had made them pale. One of them was called Omer. When he went down, I leaned over the opening of the cistern and said his name.

“Omer,” echoed the cistern. When it was empty, its voice was loud, but curiously hoarse, as though it had a cold.

“Do you know who Omer was – Homer, that is?” Isa asked me.

“No, tell me.”

“He was a blind poet of ancient Greece.”

“Who put out his eyes? The Italians?”

They laughed.

“He wrote wonderful books about one-eyed monsters and about a city called Troy and also about a wooden horse.”

I leaned into the opening again. “Homer,” I shouted. Patches of light and shadow mingled in the cistern.

“Hoooomer,” it answered.

I thought I could hear the tapping of a blind man’s cane.

FRAGMENT OF A CHRONICLE

while Japan prepared its attack on India and Australia. Trial. Writ server. Property. Gole Balloma from the Varosh district was subpoenaed for failure to pay his debts. L. Xuano’s household goods will be auctioned on Sunday. Warrants have been issued for the arrest of the old women H.Z. and C.V., charged with practising magic. Readers are advised that the defective quality of the last issue of the paper, with any errors that may have crept in,