Poeta y novelista albanés, mundialmente conocido, cuya obra, muy metafórica, evoca el universo sofocante del totalitarismo. Nacido en Argirocastro (Albania), destacó tras publicar dos libros de poemas; más tarde estudió Letras en el Instituto Gorki de Moscú. A su regreso en 1960, se dedicó a escribir: El general del ejército muerto (1962); El monstruo, Los tambores de la lluvia, Crónica de la ciudad de piedra y El gran invierno (1973); El nicho de la vergüenza, El puente de los tres arcos, Abril quebrado, El crepúsculo de los dioses de la estepa, El palacio de los sueños, El concierto, La sombra y la pirámide (1988). En 1990 obtuvo asilo político en Francia, pero en 1992 regresó a Albania. Su obra (conocida en el extranjero desde 1970 y traducida a cuarenta idiomas) fue concebida y publicada bajo el estalinismo, durante la dictadura de Enver Hodja, que amenazaba su libertad y su vida a pesar de estar considerado como escritor oficial; sin ser nunca ni militante, ni disidente, muestra el trágico absurdo del totalitarismo, y también el peso del destino sobre la condición humana. Plantea interrogantes sobre las leyendas y la historia de Albania, llevadas a un plano universal. El universo de Kadare está lleno de mitos, y se inspira en escritores como Homero, Esquilo, Shakespeare, Cervantes o Gógol. En cuanto a referencias temporales, el Imperio otomano, China, Egipto antiguo, la Unión Soviética, Albania medieval o moderna vienen a coincidir en el infinito de un laberinto temporal. Su escritura, reflexión sobre el lenguaje y la leyenda, aúna, por una parte, el respeto a las tradiciones del cuento y la novela, y, por otra, una gran innovación dentro del terreno estilístico, sobre todo en lo que a la percepción del tiempo novelesco se refiere. La caída del comunismo no ha afectado a la temática de su obra, donde siempre están presentes el mito y la historia, lo real y lo onírico, como ponen de manifiesto sus más recientes obras: Spiritus (1996), una reflexión sobre la estrategia del terror en un sistema político opresor, Tres cantos fúnebres por Kosovo (1999), Frías flores de marzo (2000), Noviembre de una capital (2000) y Frente al espejo de una mujer (2002).
El novelista, poeta y ensayista albanés Ismail Kadaré ha ganado el Premio Príncipe de Asturias de las Letras 2009 por “la belleza y el hondo compromiso de su creación literaria“.
“Estoy muy honrado y agradecido por haber recibido este premio, uno de los más prestigiosos del mundo, así como de estar en una lista de insignes escritores a los que tanto admiro.”
Premio Jerusalén AÑO 2015 para Ismail Kadaré
El novelista albanés Ismail Kadaré se ha convertido hace algunas horas en el primer autor musulmán en recibir el Premio de Literatura de Jerusalén. Cabe recordar que, en 2013, esta distinción dotada con diez mil dólares fue concedida a Antonio Muñoz Molina, español que recibió fuertes presiones por parte de numerosos artistas y colegas para rechazar este estímulo a raíz de la política exterior de Israel.
Pijamas y aeropuertos
Zumbando se posan las moscas
sobre las listas de los pijamas,
y los aviones, con estruendo,
sobre las pistas de los aeropuertos...
No me abandones jamás, vasto mundo.
¡Jamás tus puertas me cierres!
Hay amores pequeños,
primeros amores (nº 1),
que zumban en la memoria como moscas,
que preparan chocolate,
que lavan camisetas;
hay amores grandes, libres como el viento,
desperdigados al azar por todo el mundo,
que no saben dónde estamos,
que dónde se encuentran no sabemos.
El amor pequeño reclama la devolución de fotografías;
a los grandes amores se los lleva el viento en los andenes;
son sus sollozos semejantes a sirenas,
a las sirenas resonantes de las separaciones.
¡No me abandones jamás, vasto mundo!
¡Sobre las listas de mis pijamas
sigan descendiendo los aviones!
Que en la cuerda de mi ventana cuelguen,
agitadas por el viento,
las camisetas de las nubes;
que se instale el sol
en el casquillo de mi lámpara de noche. ~
En la noche glacial intenté encender un fuego,
pero la noche era fría, oh, qué negra y desolada.
Y así, para mantener el fuego vivo en tal rigor
algo más siempre era preciso con que lo alimentara.
Así como el monje vagabundo que reúne leña en las tinieblas,
arrojaba yo en aquel fuego mis miembros sin descanso,
mas como no fueran suficientes, después de ellos
a las llamas comencé a entregar jirones de mi alma.
Pues otro modo no existía, no, imposible que lo hubiera,
pues preciso era que alguien sostuviera aquella llama.
A la delirante luz que sólo el oleoso pábilo procura,
brillaban en derredor amenazantes figuras, y temblaban.
Tal vez las vierais, algo distinguisteis acaso,
en torno a mí la noche de tinieblas y de lobos se poblaba.
Pues todos sofocar pretendían aquel fuego,
unos por maldad, tantos por ignorancia.
Otros en lo alto de colinas bañadas por el sol,
sus hogueras avivaban y reían con desprecio,
incapaces de entender lo que aquí dentro sucedía,
cuánto esfuerzo requiere una llama nacida en la negrura.
Cansado, alguna vez llegué a pensar: dejaré que se extinga.
Ya que me repudian, caiga de una vez la noche eterna.
Mis ciegos ojos quedarán tal vez de esa manera
en la oscuridad completa sin que nadie los perturbe.
Mas de nuevo algo me empujaba a alzarme cual sonámbulo,
como el monje desolado que reúne leña en las tinieblas,
y sobre el fuego a arrojar mis miembros congelados,
y los jirones uno a uno arrojarle de mi alma.~
Versiones de Ramón Sánchez Lizarralde
¿Quienes son esas viejas vestidas de negro
y hablando una lengua muerta?
ellas vagan en medio de los campos endurecidos por la helada
pisando el hielo que cruje bajo sus pasos.
Encima de ellas, amenazantes los cuervos dan vueltas,
Sus graznidos parecen indicar que algo se deterioró en el código de la especie.
¿Quienes son esas viejas vestidas de negro y hablando una lengua muerta?
Algunos cuervos pisando el suelo helado de los cultivos
Algunos pobres graznidos extraviados.
Traducción: Diana Insausti.
El mundo es pequeño: quizás
tus ojos encontrarán
como la gacela al león en la selva.
Y sobre las letras negras
echarás una mirada triste.
Puede ser que tus ojos tiemblen sobre los versos
¿Pero los amarillentos versos temblarán bajo tus ojos?
Una noche llegó borracho,
sentándose cerca del fuego tiró lejos
su vieja gorra, sacó
el diario del bolsillo.
Nada contó por qué había bebido.
Mamá dijo: "Vaya una a saber".
Alguien había criticado en el diario
los versos de su hijo mayor.
En el bar repleto de ruidos y humo
le mostraron el recorte del diario,
alguien dijo: "Jodida
la poesía de tu hijo".
A los versos de su hijo nunca nadie le prestó
un interés particular.
Esa noche fue la primera vez,
entre el espeso humo del estrecho bar.
Prosternándome sobre tu suelo, Albania,
como el oráculo del templo de Dodene,
siento tu vapor rojo que me embriaga
y entonces canto.
Y si suele suceder que la canción no tiene hilación,
quiere decir que debo andar borracho
y en consecuencia
mucho más sincero.
¿cómo encontraste el camino hasta mí?
Mi madre no sabe muy bien el albanés,
las cartas las escribe como Aragón, sin puntos ni comas;
en su juventud mi padre navegó bajo otros cielos.
Sin embargo llegaste
caminando sobre el adoquinado de mi tranquila
ciudad de piedra;
tímidamente has golpeado la puerta de la casa de
en el número 16.
En la vida quise a muchas cosas, a otras nada.
Para muchas solicitudes fui ciudad abierta
pero al fin de cuentas
como ese muchacho que llega tarde a la casa,
cansado y destrozado por los bailes nocturnos,
de ese modo, agotado otra vez
después de una nueva escapada volví a ti.
sin darle importancia a mi traición,
me acariciaste suavemente el cabello,
mi última escala,
NOCHE DE HELSINKI
De repente la lluvia se detuvo,
la gente se apura.
En fila corren
hacia los dancings.
Solamente las estatuas quedan en sus pedestales,
como si temiesen que sus lugares fuesen ocupados
por los seres vivientes.
En la calle los dos corremos.
Las estatuas bien pueden tomarse un descanso,
no queremos sus lugares a ningún precio;
¡Oh, qué aburrimiento quedarse en un pedestal!
Bajo la lluvia somos eternos
esta noche, juntos los dos.
How did you find your way to me?
My mother does not know Albanian well,
She writes letters like Aragon, without commas and periods,
My father roamed the seas in his youth,
But you have come,
Walking down the pavement of my quiet city of stone,
And knocked timidly at the door of my three-storey house,
At Number 16.
There are many things I have loved and hated in life,
For many a problem I have been an 'open city',
Like a young man returning home late at night,
Exhausted and broken by his nocturnal wanderings,
Here too am I, returning to you,
Worn out after another escapade.
Not holding my infidelity against me,
Stroke my hair tenderly,
My last stop,
[Poezia, from the volume Vjersha dhe poema zë zgjedhura, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1966, p. 27, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 76]
My childhood - ink-stained fingers,
Bells in the morning,
The muezzin at dusk,
Collections of cigar boxes and old stamps,
Trading one Ceylon
For two Luxembourg.
Thus they passed,
Chasing after a rag ball, raising dust and cries,
A rag ball,
Made of grey Albanian rags.
[Fëminia, from the volume Shekulli im, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1961, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 77]
And when my memory
And when my fading memory,
Like the after-midnight trams,
Stops only at the main stations,
I will not forget you.
I will remember
That quiet evening, endless in your eyes,
The stifled sob upon my shoulder,
Like snow that cannot be brushed off.
The separation came
And I departed, far from you.
But some night
Someone's fingers will weave themselves into your hair,
My distant fingers, stretching across the miles.
[Edhe kur kujtesa, from the volume Shekulli im, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1961, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 78]
Longing for Albania
I was filled with longing for Albania
Tonight as I returned home on the trolley,
The smoke of a Partizani cigarette in the hand of a Russian
Curled bluish, twirled upwards
As if whispering to me, its compatriot,
In the language of the Albanians.
I long to stroll through the streets of Tiranë in the evening,
Where I used to get into mischief,
And through the streets where I never got into mischief.
Those old wooden doorways know me,
They will still hold a grudge against me
And will snub their noses at me,
But I won't mind
Because I am filled with longing.
I long to stroll through the lanes full of dry leaves,
Dry leaves, autumn leaves,
For which comparisons can so easily be found.
I was filled with longing for Albania,
For that great, wide and deep sky,
For the azure course of the Adriatic waves,
For clouds at sunset ablaze like castles,
For the Albanian Alps with their white hair and green beards,
For the nylon nights fluttering in the breeze,
For the mists, like red Indians, on the prowl at dawn,
For the locomotives and the horses
That huff and puff, dripping in sweat,
For the cypresses, the herds and graves
I was filled with longing.
I was filled with longing
For the Albanians.
I was filled with longing and swiftly journey there,
Flying over the mists, as over desires.
How far and how beloved you are, my country.
The airport will tremble with the droning,
The mists will hang in suspense over the chasms.
Surely those who invented the jet engine
Must have been far from their country once.
[Malli i Shqipërisë, from the volume Shekulli im, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1961, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 79]
The cataracts cascade downwards
Like spirited white horses,
Their manes full of foam and a rainbow of hues.
But suddenly, at the edge of the gorge,
They fall on their forelegs,
They break, oh, their white legs,
And die at the foot of the rocks.
Now in their lifeless eyes
The frozen sky reflects.
[Kataraktet, from the volume Vjersha dhe poema zë zgjedhura, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1966, p. 30, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 81]
The old cinema
Where no films, not even reruns, have been shown for a long time,
Where the audiences no longer make a clatter with their seats,
Where peanuts are no longer sold
The stained screen,
The broken speakers,
The empty seats like lines unwritten.
Pensive and full of nostalgia
I stare from the doorway
At this poem of seats, long and abandoned.
I've seen so many countries,
I've seen so many auditoriums,
But none of them have I entered with such joy
Shabby old cinema,
Wonderful and precious to me!
Nowhere have I felt better,
Not in luxurious halls of shining velvet,
With a couple of blondes at my side.
To you I come
In the company of a gypsy or two.
Money collected with difficulty,
Jingling merrily at the ticket-booth,
The posters by the mosque
And by the Bazaar Cafe
Drawn by Qani the doorman himself.
One poster said:
Another for the same film said:
But no one really cared,
We forgave you everything,
On that bit of screen
We saw a bit of the whole world,
For the first time.
On six square metres
The world had no limits,
The world was splendid
Even though the screen was patched up.
We too were patched up,
Patched up was the Republic,
Time, elbows, States were patched up,
But the glossiest of screens
Had never seen
A sparkle like the one
In our eyes.
Seats where childhood days
Sat in rows.
Like a row of birds
On a telephone wire.
Heavy, long and sunken seats.
As old as I get,
Wherever I go,
Like a porter I'll carry them
With me, those seats.
[Kinemaja e vjetër, from the volume Vjersha dhe poema zë zgjedhura, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1966, p. 35, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 82]
I love those train timetables at little railway stations,
Standing on the wet platform and contemplating the infinity of the tracks.
The distant howl of a locomotive. What, what?
(No one understands the nebulous language of steam engines)
Passenger trains. Tank cars. Freight cars full of ore
Endlessly pass by.
Thus pass the days of your life through the station of your being,
Filled with voices, noise, signals
And the heavy ore of memory.
[Këto orare trenash, from the volume Përse mendohen këto male, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1964, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 84]
Requiem for Mayakovski
I ate at the same table with his assassins
At the writers' vacation house
in Dubulti, in Yalta.
They smiled and talked of socialist realism,
While his blood
spattered their car windows,
Their jackets, armchairs, salaries
And the ruddy face of the critic Yermilov.
They thumped their chests and talked of socialist realism
In the presidium chamber of red velvet
under the emblem with a star,
While the Russian winter
Stretched out upon the black earth,
only to be thawed out in April.
Obscure forces dressed in socialist garb,
A pack of lousy critics, speculators, careerists,
Took up the attack with the age-old refrain of the mediocre:
"You were great, but we got you."
There stands his bronze statue in Mayakovski Square,
It rose and glumly observed the years to come.
Behind the crowd of his assassins, whom he knew,
He saw the first clouds of the counter-revolution darken the sky.
[Rekuiem për Majakovskin, from the volume Koha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1976, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 85]
What are these mountains thinking about
What are these lofty mountains thinking about
As the sun sets in the distance beyond the highway?
A mountaineer sets out at the fall of night,
His long rifle
Casting a hundred-mile-long shadow on the ground.
The shadow of the rifle hurries
Over mountains, plains, villages;
The shadow of its barrels hastens through the dusk.
I too set forth along the hillside
With a thought in my mind
The shadow of the thought and the shadow of the rifle
Cross and collide in the twilight.
This is how you have always set out, Albania,
On your long legs
And with a long rifle.
You wandered without knowing where to go,
Onwards toward the morning full of clouds and mist,
Grey and ponderous, as though born of night.
Cloudbursts ate away at the land
And bared the bases of the cliffs.
Thus, the centuries have gnawed away at your body
Until your very sinew and ribs were exposed.
Sinew, sinew and ribs,
Only boulders, rocks and mountains,
Little flat land,
Oh, how very little flat land
The centuries left you!
The centuries gnawed at you like hounds
Wherever they could get at you.
When you met them
They attacked you,
The teeth of time
Dug into your thighs,
But you did not turn back,
You did not yield.
You never removed the long rifle
From your shoulders,
From shoulders covered in wounds,
From shoulders of skin and bone.
You ate bread in brine,
Brine and maize every night,
And you saved a little fat,
Oh, that little bit of fat
For friends and for the long rifle,
To grease the long rifle.
Women give birth to babies,
But a rifle gives birth to bullets,
And the two have been equally sacred
To the Albanian:
The bullets and the babies.
The child will tomorrow take to the plough
And the rifle will protect him at night.
Time fired bullets over the shoulders of Albania
Like rice thrown over the shoulders of a bride.
The pealing of bells
Rung by night
Resounded over the mountain slopes.
What were the bells saying,
What were the priests murmuring
To their high churches
In their foreign tongues?
Latin logic, in long sentences,
Strove to bend the long rifle.
And there were poets
Poised on hand-carved furniture
From your forests
Who, inspired by you,
Wrote of varnished wood
And of nightingales
In the trees, ancestors of furniture,
Who had once sung.
That in your forests,
From whence the furniture came,
There were many wolves
And few nightingales.
Storms, fever, malaria ravaged your body,
The priests and the mullahs
You devoured your children in blood feuds,
And on these feuds the minarets and bell towers
Bestowed their blessings.
And fierce enemies nipped at the borders,
Nipped at the pale, bare shoulders of our native land.
The land arose, tottering,
Its eyes glowing with hunger and fever
And, forgetting its hunger,
Set forth in the night to measure the borders,
With a foot rule?
With a yard stick?
With the long rifle.
Your first contact with inventions,
With the new technology of civilization
Was with types and calibres of new weapons,
Which were tested against your withered, bullet-riddled breast.
After the fighting
There remained but the solitary graves of mountaineers,
Mounds of melancholy,
For a long time
Nothing but a heap of stone
And, instead of flowers at the head,
A monotonous song
Chanted by the tribe,
A monotonous song.
And beside the long limbs
The rifle fell away, the long rifle.
And after the long limbs
The short name fell away,
The letters dropping off
Like pine cones in the rain,
And after everything else
At last the song ceased,
The monotonous song of the tribe.
And once again Albania cowered in a hut
In her dark mythological nights
And on the strings of a lute strove to express something
Of her incomprehensible soul,
Of the inner voices
That echoed mutely from the depths of the epic earth.
She strove to express something
But what could three strings
Beneath five fingers trembling with hunger express?
It would have taken hundreds of miles of strings
And millions of fingers
To express the soul of Albania!
If one was slain on a hillside,
Another arose elsewhere,
As if out of the earth -
The gaunt Albanian,
And above his body,
Like an iron limb,
The long rifle
With the rifle in his hand,
He wandered through these regions,
Over mountains and plains.
The rifle made him taller,
Though it often made his life shorter.
Chewing on legends in the freezing night,
Famished, you ate your own songs,
You were overcome by sleep,
Bent over the plough at twilight
Under the dark heavens
And you dreamt of so little joy
As no one had ever dreamt of before.
Of one more slice of bread,
Of one more spoonful of brine.
You dreamt of brine and bread
And of a little, so very little fat
To share with the rifle.
Your wedding was
Lightning in the midst of your misery,
Full of nerves, drums, quarrelling
And a little joy,
The little joy you dreamt of behind the plough
The nights gave birth to mornings,
Ponderous and grey;
The days cursed the nights,
The nights cursed the days.
Albania in her ruggedness
Gave birth to beautiful children,
Implanting in each child
A dream, a hope.
Tending her withered breasts,
Albania gave life,
She gave birth to soldiers,
Who later died in the sands of the Sahara,
Singing of the Bridge to the Kaaba.
The sons you sent to the cities of Europe,
Who knew foreign pleasures,
One by one,
To find a sorrowful land,
Clouds laden with yellow rain.
The monarchy, like a quarryman, smashed their dreams.
With suitcases full of illusions
Under the shadow of minarets, of monasteries,
And rambled in autumnal delusions
Until the earth returned them to her bosom
And they rotted under the monotonous song of the rain.
Early fruits are expensive in price,
But early fruits are often destroyed by frost.
Albania placed them back into her bosom
"It is still too early," she said,
Observing the gloomy light of dawn.
And once again she bent over the plough
And sowed her bitter tears in long furrows.
Under a sombre sky of endless ignorance
She sowed her tears
For rainstorms and tempests to come.
The priests and a few drowsy poets came forth
To declaim abstract genealogical glories,
But you trampled on traditional laws
With your bare feet and scratched their poetic figures.
As if you were some insane beauty,
The traitors spun you around to take advantage of you,
No matter if you have no food.
We are God's chosen people,"
While you scratched out an embossment under the stars,
Your embossment of scabby, filthy sores.
The poets wrote hymns to the fairies and nymphs,
Who were delousing themselves by the streams.
You could count the very ribs of the fairies, the nymphs,
Who, for a few coins, would proffer themselves in the bushes.
On occasion, the fairies and the nymphs managed
To abandon their epic alpine meadows
And descend one by one
Into the villages.
And, one by one, they ended up
In the brothels,
In the brothels that dotted
The weary mountain ridges,
The nymphs departed,
Abandoning the myths,
And the myths began to empty.
The last granary of the nation,
Returned to the abandoned churches.
For the myths, like people, were hungry,
And lived in great poverty,
Greater than any other,
In an age when the winds of boredom whistled
Over deserted mythical plains.
In the palace, King Zog gave nightly balls,
The princesses smiled,
The dancers waltzed.
In the quiet cells of frigid monasteries
The priests studied suffixes.
The orchestra played on
In Café Kursaal,
The elderly matrons powdered their noses,
While pregnant Albania
Miscarried the days
On bloodstained napkins of clouds.
And the mountain ranges were silent like horse caravans,
Oh, what caravans they were,
These mountain ranges!
They waited for hours,
For someone to lead them into the great battle,
For someone to lead them to a new world,
The mountain ranges waited with their heads in the clouds.
There were those who tried to tug at the mountains,
Like at the halters of horses
And led them a little way down the road,
But in the dark, they lost their way.
The formidable mountain ranges wandered in circles
Through the night and the fog,
As if frightened by a tragic shrieking of old,
The heroic mountains neighed in their dreams.
And thus they turned in circles like a caravan in the desert,
Until they settled down, were calm once again,
Until twilight, the fortresses, hunger, the epic legends
Jumped on their backs again,
And with them
The brothels too.
But the calm was deceptive,
The long mountain caravans were waiting,
Waiting for a leader,
Albania was waiting
For the Communist Party.
What are these lofty mountains thinking about,
These enigmas of ridges stretching north and south?
I continue on my way
In the shadow of the long rifle,
That long rifle:
Your Archimedes' lever, Albania.
Through the sight of his rifle
The Albanian observed the horizons and the times,
The solitary whistling of his musket
Forced the centuries to duck.
This rifle barrel
On the Albanian's back
Has grown there like a long sharp bone
Transplanted to his spine by a difficult destiny,
An extension of his backbone,
This awesome iron limb,
A proud atavism of ancient times.
The fearless Albanian has crossed the centuries,
With destiny on his back,
Trudging in his ancient sandals
Across the ageless land holding the graves of our forefathers.
This land which has brought forth
More heroism than grain through the ages,
That is what these lofty mountains are thinking about,
As evening falls in the distance beyond the highway.
[Përse mendohen këto male, from the volume Përse mendohen këto male, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1964, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 88-96]
The Red Pashas
At midnight did the Politburo gather,
What's new at the northern border?
What's up at the southern border?
The sky is clouded, snowy winter.
Is the old ruling class on the move,
Is disaster in the making?
Have the heads of foreign missions
Been sending telegrams of alarm?
No, it's quiet at the borders,
No alarm comes from the missions,
Under the dictatorship of the proletariat
The once great castes will spend winter with bowed heads.
And production is normal, and the days
Pass routinely in December...
Why then unexpectedly
At midnight did the Politburo gather?
States are not destroyed from the rooftops
Though the water seeps in somewhere,
They're destroyed from their foundations,
Socialist states are subject
To this principle, too.
Everything may seem fine at the top,
Socialist competition, song-singing,
Posters and our heroes of socialist labour,
On the First of May in the local paper.
Telegrams of congratulation, sunshine
At public meetings and in the verse of young writers,
But, down below,
Yes, in the foundations,
A black tumour grows slowly.
For our foes we have cannons, hymns and dances,
Let the foreign missions send the message,
With what do we fight bureaucracy?
Cannons are of no use,
And there are no consuls for spreading such news.
Midst notes and phone calls, correspondence,
The scenes are always filled
To the hilt with those friendly smiles,
Bureaucrats are a different matter.
Not with Pelican ink they're covered,
That fine, eccentric bunch, ha, ha,
No, they are evil,
I see them with their hands
Bathed in blood up to the elbows.
I see them digging deeply
At the foundations of the revolution.
What are they doing?
Why are they overturning, throwing left and right,
The bodies of our socialist martyrs?
But take a look,
It appears they are washing the bodies,
They are trying swiftly to efface the bloodstains from the foundations,
And with the blood, efface what they have left behind themselves:
All our ideals and principles.
How are they to efface these traces of blood?
Oh, they know how easy it then is
To alter the course of the revolution, the dictatorship
Of the proletariat
In its essence.
Thus, they have fallen to their knees,
Ever scrubbing, washing the blood away,
But what has happened now?
Why have they halted
At that barren garden, at that empty yard?
Here is where the overthrown caste was buried,
The pashas, beys, and noble families,
They attack, turn the bodies over and begin
Without delay to strip them bare.
The bloodstained robes of the former rulers
They don quickly, with orders and medals.
Sporting these on their shoulders, in the night,
They set off towards morning like a cloudburst.
And morning came,
Pale and frozen,
Under their cloaks with the orders and crowns,
They go off to work, to their ministries and offices,
Indeed, even to the Central Committee.
The Red Pashas, beys with party membership cards,
Baron-secretaries, petroleum mafia, all lined up,
A sombre procession, to the chanting of liturgy,
They bear the revolution's coffin to the grave...
But externally, the scene looked different,
Smiles and the clenching of fists at public meetings,
Things went easily with Uncle Kamberi and the old men,
With words like "Enver," "the Party," "Self-criticism."
So it was during the daytime,
But at night
They returned to the foundations,
But the revolution was not like Rozafa's Castle,
Which rose in the daytime and crumbled at night.
Enver Hoxha with his eagle eye
Was the first to have doubts about them.
He then descended to the foundations
Of the state, as in the great ballads of old.
He bore a red torch in his hand,
The very earth quivered,
The light of the fire fell upon them,
And he saw them effacing the blood of our martyrs
As they were dividing up the cloaks.
"What, you are here?"
They rose to their feet.
"Oh, Comrade Enver, hmm, long may you live!"
But he looked askance
With pain in each strand of his hair,
And roared like a mountain in winter.
He was not Christ, to drive them from power
With a whip and a club.
He raised the working class
To make Communism thrive.
Just as once partisan patrols,
Teams of worker-supervisors now spread out:
"Let the ministries not be seized by cannon fire
Today we will take them under our control."
The dictatorship of the working class is not found simply in poetry
Or on the birthday of a veteran lathe worker.
Are you for socialism?
Then run and queue up,
Proclaim everywhere and above all
The control of the working class.
Fight bureaucracy day and night,
Keep the old ruling class underfoot
If you do not want the firing squad
To line them up against the wall tomorrow
On the Main Boulevard.
The storm of events
Continued furiously for years and seasons,
Plenary sessions of the Party gathered, like
The revolution's soldiers
In a storm.
The working class marches with the party on epoch-making days
The people swarm behind the working class,
And should the Politburo again
Gather at noon or at midnight
They are at the ready.
[Pashallarët e Kuq, translated by Robert Elsie. This poem, modest from a literary point of view, was written ca. January 1974, half a year after the Fourth Plenary Session of the Central Committee (June 1973), which had caused considerable panic in intellectual circles in Albania. It was originally to have been published in the literary newspaper Drita (The Light) in 1975, but was banned at the last moment, and Kadare was severely taken to task for having written it. Long regarded as lost, "The Red Pashas," also known as "Meeting of the Politburo at Noon," has been the subject of much controversy and interpretation. Indeed a whole book was written about it, Zhdukja e Pashallarëve të kuq të Kadaresë: anketim për një krim letrar (The Disappearance of Kadare's The Red Pashas: Inquiry into a Literary Crime), Tirana 2002, by Maks Velo. In March 2002, the poem was finally discovered in a Tirana archive and is translated here for the first time]